^M 


UCSB-  LIBRARY 


THE 


w©wm<B  ^^m'^m  ^v^iiw^. 


THE 


Y@B^a>JS  LA^Ym  '®0^T. 


^ommoiuplacc  ':^ml\  o[  r^tciH-  raid  }i»oett^ 


rOiMPKlSING   SELrXTIONS  FROM  THE  WORKS  Ol 
THE  MOST  CELEBRATED 


#emiiile  W^iU^^. 


Second   Ser  tc» . 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1838, 

By  B.  Cra.vston  &  Co. 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  of  Rhode-Island. 


^^mwiM:Rwmmii^/2^i}:^i^n 


The  rapid  sale  of  the  first  volume  of  the  You.ng 
Lady's  Gift,  has  induced  the  publishers  to  pre- 
pare  the  second,  in  a  more  beautiful  style.  The 
selections  have  been  made  entirely  from  the 
most  popular  female  authors,  so  that  it  combines 
as  much  talent,  with  but  little  of  the  expense  of 
the  Enn;lish  Annuals. 


^©M^MMWc 


Charlotte  de  Montmorenci,     , 

Agnes  SlricUand, 

9 

The  American  Indians, 

Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney, 

27 

The  Mothers  Sacrifice, 

4.0 

'ihe  Ruler's  Faith, 

a        u      u 

C5 

The  Contrast, 

2GG 

The  Death  of  Ivlusic, 

.   iWiss  H.  F.  Gould, 

28 

Blowing  Bubbles, 

'■     '••     •■•- 

45 

The  Motherless, 

Sarah  Slickney, 

29 

The  Forsaken  Friend, 

. 

4^j 

The  iEolian  Harp,      . 

.Mrs.  Abdy, 

31 

The  Enclosed  Common, 

a           ii 

154 

Match-Breaking, 

"           " 

161 

The  Young  Poet,     . 

.      '■ 

277 

Isoline  de  Valmont,     . 

Mrs.  Walker, 

32 

The  Funeral  of  the  Forsaken, 

.       '' 

42 

Our  Rector, 

Miss  Mitford, 

48 

Mademoiselle  Therese, 

u              c: 

114 

Country  Lodgings, 

.         "              " 

280 

The  Song  of  Dreams, 

.     BIrs.  M.  A.  BroiL-ne, 

59 

The  Departed,     . 

•••       -'     " 

113 

The  Voice  of  Home, 

Mrs.  Hemans, 

CI 

Madeline,     .... 

.      ••' 

105 

The  Meeting  of  the  Brothers, 

cc                ei 

209 

Translation  from  Metastasio, 

tt                i: 

211 

Stanzas,          .... 

Mrs.  Crawford, 

157 

Tasso's  Prison  Song, 

•'            " 

235 

Fair  Annie  Macleod, 

. 

269 

The  March  of  tlie  Ancient  Bri 

tons.        "            " 

21)7 

via                                    COXTEXTS. 

The  Lost  Star.      .        .        .        Ml^a;  L.  E.  London 

63 

Juliet,  nfter  the  Masquerade.      .     •'       "     ■'         " 

108 

Disenchantment.    ...          '•'       "     "        " 

152 

The  Ionian  Captive,            .         .     "      "     "        " 

156 

Can  You  Forget  Me  ?      .         .         "       "     " 

159 

The  Prophetess,     ...          u      'c     u        u 

203 

Gibraltar,  from  the  Sea,     .         .      "       "     "        " 

205 

Song, Mrs.  Charles  Gore 

64 

Nature  and  Art,          .        .        .        "         '•'          *' 

119 

Song, a          u            <. 

158 

The  Monk's  Farewell  to  his  Orange  Tre3,  "          " 

295 

Earl  Warwick's  Seal  Ring,     .         .      Miss  Lawrence, 

67 

The  Dream  of  Feticius,      .         .         .     Mary  Howitt, 

110 

A  Legend  of  MacAlister  More, 

212 

The  Wreatlis, Eliza  Cook, 

207 

The  World, ..-        ^      ' 

233 

A  Sailor's  Mid-Watch  Reflections,         Mrs.  Wilson, 

231 

Love  and  Hope,         ....     Mrs.  Turnhvll, 

232 

Annie  Leslie,        ....       Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall, 

236 

Love  and  Vanity,     . 
The  Court  at  Tunbridge, 


Hon.  Augusta  Norton,  298 
n  1664.  314 


THE 


ottitg  M^H'i  Stft. 


A  TALE  OF  THR  FRENCH  CHROXICLES. 

BY  AG^'ES  STRICKLAND. 

It  was  the  second  morning  after  Charlotte  de  Mont- 
morenci's  first  ball ;  but  the  enchantments  with  which 
that  memorable  evenmg  had  been  franght  still  floated 
before  her  youthful  fancy.  She  had  thought  of  nothing 
but  the  Louvre  and  its  glittering  pagean''ry  all  day  ; 
and  her  pillow  had  been  haunted  with  dreams  of  Henri 
Quartre,  and  the  gay  and  gallant  nobles  of  his  court 
who  had  vied  with  each  other  in  offering  the  most  in. 
tosicating  homage  to  her  charms.  Charlotte  de  INIont- 
morenci  was  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  France,  and 
the  sensation  produced  by  her  first  appearance  at  court, 
was  enough  to  dazzle  the  mind  of  a  damsel  only  just 
emancipated  from  the  sober  restraints  of  a  conventual 
education.     She  had  danced  the  pavon*  with  Henri 

"  Or  peacock  dance,  an  ancient  minuet. 
1 


10  CHARLOTTE  DE  M0NT3I0RENCI. 

himself,  who  had  been  lavish,  on  that  occasion,  of  the 
seductive  flattery  which  he  v/a.s  so  well  skilled  to  v/his- 
per  in  a  lady's  ear.  Charlotte  had  found  this  incense 
only  too  agreeable ;  but  the  pleasure  with  which  she 
was  disposed  to  listen  to  the  compliments  of  royalty, 
received  something  very  like  a  check  from  the  imper- 
tinent espionage  of  a  pair  of  penetrating  dark  eyes, 
which,  whenever  she  raised  her  own,  she  encountered, 
fixed  upon  her  with  looks  expressive  rather  of  reproof 
than  admhation. 

PIov.'^  dared  any  eyes  address  lancruage  so  displeasing 
to  the  reigning  beauty  of  the  evening,  especially  when 
her  affianced  lover,  tlie  sprightly  heir  of  Bassompierre, 
appeared  higlily  gratified  with  the  brilliant  success 
that  had  attended  her  presentation  at  court  ?  Bassom. 
pierre  was  the  handsomest  and  most  admired  of  all  the 
peers  of  France.  He  stood  very  high  in  the  favor  of 
his  sovereign  ;  and  so  generally  irresistible  was  he 
considered  by  the  ladies,  that  his  choice  of  Mademoi- 
selle  de  Montinorcnci  had  entitled  her  to  the  liiwy  of 
half  the  females  of  the  court,  who  had  vainly  endeav- 
ored to  fix  his  roving  heart. 

Charlotte,  in  accepting  him,  had  driven  a  hundred 
lovers  to  despair  ;  for  the  beautiful  and  wealthy  daugh- 
ter of  the  most  illustrious  peer  of  France,  from  the 
moment  she  quilted  lier  convent,  had  been  surrounded 
by  suitors.  The  provoking  dark  eyes,  whose  imperti- 
nent observations  had  annoyed  and  offended  her  in 
the  royal  salon  de  danse,  did  not  belong  to  any  of 
these  luckless  gallants.  It  would  have  been  difficult, 
perhaps,  for  any  lady,  however  fair,  to  reject  the  ad- 
dresses of  a  man  wii.h  such  a  pair  of  eyes,  if  their 
owner  liad  rendered  them  as  eloquent  in  impassioned 
]deading  as  they  v/ere  in  reproof.  These  unauthor- 
ised monitors,  too,  pertained  not  to  the  grave  and 
state! V  Sully,  or  any  of  the  elder  worthies  of  the 
court,  whom  wisdom,  virtue,  and  mature  years,  might 


CHARLOTTE  DE  HONTMOKENCI.  11 

entitle  to  play  the  moralist,  but  to  a  pale,  melancholy 
Btripling,  who  engaged  the  attention  of  no  one  in  the 
glittering  circle  bat  the  neglected  qucc]i.  With  her 
he  appeared  to  be  on  terms  of  affectionate  confidence  ; 
and  it  was  from  Ixshind  her  chair  that  he  directed 
those  glances  which  excited  the  surprise  and  displeas- 
ure of  the  fair  IMontmorenci. 

The  expression  of  those  eyes,  to  say  nothing  of  their 
singular  beauty,  haunted  Charlotte  after  her  return 
to  the  hotel  de  Montmorenci ;  and  she  regretted  that 
she  had  not  asked  Bassompierre  who  the  person  was 
that  had  conducted  himself  in  so  extraordinary  a  man- 
ner. She  had  thought  of  propounding  the  inquiry 
more  than  once  during  the  evening,  but  was  unwilling 
to  call  her  lover's  attention  to  a  circumstance  that  was 
mortifying  to  her  self-love.  She  fell  asleep  v.-ith  the 
determination  of  amusing  Bassompierre,  when  he  called 
to  pay  his  devoir  to  her  the  next  morning,  with  a 
whimsical  description  of  the  pale  dark-eyed  boy  ;  trust- 
ing that  her  powers  of  mimicry  would  elicit  from  he^- 
sprightly  lover  the  name  of  the  person  she  sketched, 
without  betraying  her  curiosity. 

The  follov.-ing  day,  at  as  early  an  hour  as  courtly 
etiquette  permitted,  the  salons  of  the  Duchess  de  Mont- 
morenci  were  crowded  with  visiters  of  the  highest 
rank,  all  eager  to  offer  their  compliments  to  her  beau- 
tiful daughter.  He  of  the  mysterious  dark  eyes,  and 
Frangois  Bassompierre,  were,  however,  not  among  the 
visiters.  Charlotte  was  surprised  and  piqued  at  this 
neglect  on  the  part  of  her  lover,  and  resolved  to  pun- 
ish him  by  a  very  haughty  reception  the  next  time  he 
entered  her  presence  ;  but  he  neither  came  nor  sent  to 
inquire  after  her  health  that  day. 

The  next  morning  the  Duke  de  Montm.orcnci,  after 
his  return  from  the  king's  levee,  said  to  his  daugh- 
ter  :— 

"  Charlotte,  the  king  has  forbidden  your  marriage 
with  young  Bassompierre." 


12  CHAKLOTTK  DE  X0.M:>I0KE.\-CI. 

"  Very  impertinent  of  the  kijig,  I  think  1  What 
reason  does  he  give  for  this  unprecedented  act  of 
tyranny  ?" 

"  That  you  are  worthy  of  a  more  illustrious  alli- 
ance." 

"  I  wish  King  Henri  would  mind  his  own  business, 
instead  of  interfering  in  mine,"  said  Charlotte,  an- 
grily. 

"  My  dear  child,  you  are  ungrateful  to  our  gracious 
sovereign,  who  has  expressed  his  intention  of  marry, 
ing  you  to  his  own  kinsman,  the  first  prince  of  the 
blood." 

"  And  who  may  he  be  V 

"  The  young  Prince  de  Conde,  the  illustrious  de- 
scendant  of  a  line  of  heroes,  and,  after  Henri's  infant 
sons,  the  heir-presumptive  to  the  throne  of  France. 
Think  of  that,  my  daughter  I" 

»•  I  will  not  think  of  any  thing  but  Bassompierre," 
replied  Charlotte,  resolutely.  "  It  is  very  barbarous 
of  the  king  to  endeavor  to  separate  those  whom  love 
has  united." 

"  Love  !"  repeated  the  duke.  "  Bah  !  you  cannot 
say  that  you  seriously  love  young  Bassompierre." 

"  i  think  him  very  handsome  and  agreeable,  at  any 
rate ;  and  I  am  determined  to  marry  him,  and  no  one 
else.  Ah  I  I  comprehend  the  reason  of  his  absence 
now.  He  has  been  forbidden  to  see  me  by  that  cruel 
Henri." 

"  You  arc  right,  Charlotte  ;  it  is  in  obedience  to 
the  injunctions  of  the  sovereign,  that  Bassompierre 
has  discontinued  his  visits  to  you.  You  will  see  him 
no  more." 

"  Have  I  not  said  that  I  will  not  resign  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  child,  but  he  has  resigned  you." 

"  Resigned  me  I"  exclaimed  Charlotte,  starting  from 
her  chair  with  a  burst  of  indignant  surprise ;  "  Nay, 
that  is  impossible  ;  unless,  indeed,  you  have  told  him 


CHARLOTTE  DE  MU.NTMORENCI.  13 

that  1  am  faithless,  or  that  I  wish  him  to  sacrifice  his 
happiness  in  order  to  contract  a  nobler  alliance." 

•'  On  the  word  of  a  Montmorcnci,  he  has  been  told 
nothing,  except  that  it  was  the  king's  pleasure  that  he 
should  relinquish  his  engagement  with  you,  and  marry 
the  heiress  of  the  Duke  d'Aumale." 

"  How,  marry  another  ?  But  I  know  Bassompierrc 
too  well  to  believe  he  will  act  so  basely." 

"  My  poor  Charlotte,  you  are  little  acquainted  with 
the  disposition  of  men  of  the  world  and  courtiers,  or 
you  would  not  imagine  the  possibility  of  your  hand 
being  placed  in  competition  with  the  loss  of  the  royal 
favor.  Bassompierrc,  instead  of  acting  like  a  roman- 
tic boy,  and  forfeiting  the  king's  regard  for  the  sake 
of  a  pretty  girl,  who  cares  not  a  whit  more  for  him 
than  he  does  for  her,  has  cancelled  his  contract  with 
Charlotte  ^Marguerite  de  Montmorcnci,  and  affianced 
himself  to  Mademoiselle  d'Aumale." 

••  The  heartless  minion  1"  cried  Charlotte,  with 
flashing  eyes;  "would  that  I  had  some  means  of 
evincing  my  scorn  and  contempt  for  hio  baseness  I" 

"  The  surest  way  of  doing  that,  my  child,  will  be 
to  accept  the  illustrious  consort  whom  the  king  has 
been  graciously  pleased  to  provide  for  3'ou." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  replied  Charlotte,  after  a  pause  , 
"  but  what  sort  of  a  man  is  the  Prince  de  Conde  ?" 

"  He  is  said  to  possess  great  and  noble  qualities,'" 
said  the  duke  ;  "  but  he  is  at  present  only  in  his  mi. 
nority,  and  is  withal  of  a  reserved  disposition.  There 
is,  however,  no  doubt  but  the  companionship  of  a  wife 
of  your  brilliant  v»it  and  accomplishments  will  draw 
out  the  fijie  talents  with  which  this  amiable  prince  it 
endowed,  and  render  him  worthy  of  his  distinguishec 
ancestry." 

"  I   confess,"  observed  Charlotte,    "  that  I  shouk 
prefer  a  man  whose  claims  to  my  respect   were  of  j 
less  adventitious   character.     I  should  like    to  be  th. 
wife  of  a  hero." 
1* 


14  CHAilLOTTE  DE  JlOiNTMUKENCi. 

«'  So  you  v.'lll,  ill  all  probability,  if  you  marry  Henri 
de  Conde.  He  is  the  last  representative  of  a  line 
whose  heritage  is  glory,  and  of  whose  alliance  even  a 
Montniorenci  might  be  proud  ;"  returned  the  father. 

He  then  hastened  to  communicate  to  the  king  the 
agreeable  intelligence  that  his  daughter  had  offered  no 
objections  to  a  marriage  with  his  youthful  w^ard  and 
kinsman,  the  Prince  de  Conde. 

"It  is  well,"  replied  the  monarch;  "I  will  myself 
present  the  Prince  de  Conde  to  his  fair  bride,  and  the 
contract  shall  be  signed  in  my  presence  this  eve- 
ning." 

The  Duke  and  Duchess  dc  Montniorenci  were 
charmed  at  the  idea  of  an  alliance  that  offered  to 
their  only  daughter  no  very  rem.ote  prospect  of  shar- 
ing  the  throne  of  France.  As  for  the  fair  Charlotte, 
her  pride  alone  having  been  wounded  by  the  desertion 
of  Bassompierre,  she  took  the  readiest  way  of  dissi- 
pating  any  chagrin  his  defection  had  caused,  by  mak- 
ing une  grande  toilette  for  the  reception  of  the  new 
candidate  for  her  hand.  So  long  was  she  engaged  in 
this  interesting  occupation,  that  a  pompous  and  con- 
tinuous flourish  of  trumpets  announced  the  arrival  of 
the  royal  cortege  at  the  hotel  de  Montmorenci,  before 
she  had  concluded  the  arrangement  of  ruff  and  fardin- 
gale  to  her  own  satisfaction. 

Her  entrance  was  greeted  with  a  suppressed  mur- 
mur of  admiration,  and  the  graceful  manner  with 
which  she  advanced  to  offer  her  homage  to  her  sove- 
reign,  excited  fresh  applause. 

"  Ah,  my  cousin,"  cried  the  enamored  monarch, 
turning  to  the  Prince  de  Conde,  "  what  an  enviable 
man  am  I  not  about  to  render  j'ou,  in  uniting  you  to 
so  charming  a  bride  I  By  the  mass,  if  I  were  a  bache- 
lor, I  must  have  kept  iier  for  myself,  and  laid  my 
crown  at  her  feet ;  and,  even  as  it  is,  I  feel  more  pain 
than  I  am  \villing  to  confess  in  bestowing  her  upon 
another." 


CHARLOTTE  DE  MOJNTMOUKNCI.  15 

Henri  Quarlrc  felt  the  hand  of  the  youthful  beauty, 
which  ho  had  retained  in  his  own,  while  addrcssinjr 
this  high-llown  compliment  to  her  future  husband, 
tremble  in  his  grasp.  Charlotte  was  conscious  that 
her  sovereign  Avas  availing  himself  of  his  opportunity 
of  pressing  her  fairy  fingers,  with  more  ardor  than 
became  the  paternal  character  he  had  assumed.  A 
deep  blush  overspread  her  countenance  as  the  question 
suggested  itself  to  her  mind,  "  Wherefore  has  ho  ta- 
ken so  much  pains  to  separate  me  from  Franfjois  Bas- 
sompierrc  ?"  and,  at  the  same  moment,  she  stole  a  fur. 
tive  glance  at  him,  whose  dcsliny  was,  from  that  hour, 
to  be  so  closely  connected  with  her  ovw'n,  and  encoun- 
tered the  dark  penetrating  eyes,  whose  scrutiny  had  so 
much  disturbed  her  at  the  Louvre.  They  were  still 
bent  on  her  face  v.'illi  the  same  grave,  mournful  ex- 
pression, as  if  intended  to  pierce  into  her  very  soul. 
Those  beautiful  and  searching  eyes  belonged  to  Henri 
de  Condc.  .Scarcely  had  she  made  this  startling  dis- 
covery, when  the  king,  assuming  the  imposing  charac- 
teristics of  majesty,  which  so  much  better  becam.e  his 
mature  age  than  the  light  and  reckless  tone  of  gal- 
lantry in  wliich  he  had  before  indulged,  presented  the 
Prince  de  Conde  to  her  in  due  form.  Then,  putthig 
h.cr  hand  into  that  of  his  pale,  thoughtful  kinsman,  he 
pronounced  the  patriarchal  hlcsslug  of  the  suzerain  on 
tlicir  approaching  union. 

Cliarioltc  .starlcd,  and  impulsively  drcv/  back  from 
tlie  icy  touch  of  the  cold  hand  that  then  faintly  closed 
on  hers.  There  v/as  nothing  of  tenderness,  or  encour- 
agement, in  the  sternly  composed  features  of  C'onde  ; 
no  trait  of  that  silently  expressive  homage,  which  is 
no  dear  to  the  heart  of  woman  ;  nothing,  in  fact,  to 
compensate  for' the  absence  of  manly  beauty  and  courtly 
grace  in  a  very  young  man.  Though  the  habits  of 
politeness  and  self-control,  v/hich  arc  su  early  ini- 
preseed  upon  the  daughters  of  the  great,  prevented  the 


16  ClIAllLOTTE  L>E  MOrwTMORE.XCI. 

i'aii'  3Ioutmorcnci  from  betraying  her  secret  dissatisfac- 
tion, she  ventured  to  direct  an  appealing  look  to  hei 
parents,  as  if  to  implore  their  interference  ;  but  hei 
mother  turned  away,  and  her  father  gave  her  a  glance 
which  intimated  that  it  was  too  late  to  recede. 

The  marriage  contract  was  read,  and  subscribed  by 
the  king  in  his  three-fold  capacity  of  suzerain,  or  pa- 
ramount liege-lord  of  the  contracting  parties  ;  and  also 
as  the  next  of  kin  and  guardian  of  the  illustrious  bride- 
groom, who  was  an  orphan  and  a  minor.  It  was  next 
u4tnesscd  by  the  parents  of  the  bride.  The  pen  was 
next  presented  to  the  Prince  dc  Conde.  He  paused, 
and  appeared  irresolute  ;  darted  a  glance  of  suspicion: 
inquiry  at  tlie  king,  and  bent  one  of  his  searchinj' 
looks  on  the  face  of  her  to  whom  he  was  required  t' 
plight  himself.  Pvlademoiselle  de  Montmorenci  wa 
uuconcious  of  his  scrutiny.  Overpowered  by  th; 
strangeness  and  agitating  nature  of  the  scene,  sh- 
stood,  V\-ilh  downcast  eyes  and  a  varying  color,  lean 
ing  her  clasped  hands  for  support  oji  the  shoulder  o' 
her  only  brother,  afterwards  so  celebrated  in  the  anual. 
of  France,  as  the  illustrious  and  unfortunate  Henri  dc 
Montmorenci.  Never  had  she  appeared  so  charming 
as  at  that  moment,  vv'licn  the  feminine  emotions  of  feai 
and  shame  had  lent  their  softening  shade  to  beauty, 
which  was,  perhaps,  too  dazzli-ig  in  its  faultless  per- 
fection, and  calculated  rather  to  excite  wonder  and 
admiration,  than  to  inspire  tenderness.  The  stern  ex- 
pression of  Conde's  features  relaxed  as  he  gazed  upo: 
her,  and  observed  the  virgin  hues  of  "  celestial  ros; 
red,"  and  "  angel  whiteness,"  that  came  and  went  i. 
her  fair  cheek.  His  countenance  brightened,  he  tool 
the  pen  with  sudden  animation,  and,  v^'ith  a  farmhand 
and  in  bold  free  characters,  subscribed  his  name  to  tL 
contract. 

"  Charlotte  Marguerite  de  Montmorenci,  your  sig 
nature  is  required,"  said  the  duke  her  father  to  tU 
evidently  reluctant  damsel. 


CHAHLOTXE  UK  iMOxNT.'lOKE.XCI.  17 

"  1  have  a  great  mind  not  to  sign,"  said  she,  in  a 
confidential  tone  aside  to  her  brother,  who  was  two 
years  younger  than  herself. 

"  Are  you  minded  to  offer  an  unprovoked  affront  to 
an  honorable  gentleman,  and  to  afford  a  triumph  to  a 
recreant  lover  ?"  was  the  whispered  respons„  of  the 
youthful  heir  of  Montmorcnci. 

Charlotte  advanced  to  the  table,  and  signed  the  in- 
f^trument.  She  received  somewhat  coolly  the  congrat- 
ulations  v.ith  which  her  friends  and  relations  over- 
whehned  her  ;  and  when  the  folding  doors  of  the  saloon 
were  thrown  open,  and  the  king  gave  his  hand  to  the 
Duchess  de  Montmorcnci  to  lead  her  into  the  banquet, 
ing-room,  where  a  sumptuous  entertainment  had  been 
laid  out  in  honor  of  the  occasion,  she  took  the  offered 
arm  of  the  man  to  whom  she  had  just  affianced  herself, 
with  an  averted  head,  and  a  sigh  escaped  her. 

"  I  fear,"  said  he,  in  a  lov7  voice,  "  that  you  have 
been  compelled  to  do  violence  to  your  feelings  in  sign- 
ing that  contract." 

These  were  the  first  words  that  Conde  had  ever  ad- 
dressed to  his  beautiful  fiancee,  and  there  was  a  deep 
and  tender  melody  in  the  rich  but  melancholy  tones  of 
his  voice,  that  thrilled  to  her  heart  not  less  strangely 
than  the  penetrating  glances  of  his  fine  dark  eyes  had 
previously  done. 

"  I  shall  not  hate  him  quite  so  much  as  I  thought  I 
should,"  was  her  mental  response  to  this  considerate 
question ;  but  instead  of  answering  the  prince  with 
reciprocal  frankness,  she  replied  with  some  hauteur — 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  do  any  thing  on  compul- 
sion, Monsieur," 

It  was  now  Conde's  turn  to  sigh — he  did  so  froni 
the  bottom  of  his  heart ;  and  Charlotte  felt  angry  with 
herself  for  the  perverseness  v»-liich  had  prompted  her  to 
repel  his  first  advance  towards  a  confidential  under- 
Ktanding. 


18  CHARLOTTE  DE  MONTrvIORENCI. 

A  ball  succeeded  tlie  banquet.  The  Prince  de  Condc 
did  not  dance,  though  reminded  that  courtly  etiquette 
required  that  he  should  at  least  tread  one  measure 
with  his  bride  elect ;  and  Charlotte  found  a  more  gal- 
lant, if  not  a  more  suitable  partner,  in  her  admiring 
sovereign,  with  whom  she  once  more  danced  the  grace- 
ful pcftsn,  and  bounded,  with  fijing  feet,  through  the 
light  courant,  heedless  of  the  grave  looks  of  disappro- 
I)ation  with  which  her  vivacious  enjoyment  of  her 
favorite  amusement  v>-as  regarded  by  him  to  Avhom  her 
hand  was  now  plighted. 

An  early  day  had  been  fixed  by  the  king  for  the 
nuptials  of  Bassompierrc  and  Mademoiselle  D'Aunalc. 
Charlotte  expressed  a  wish  that  her  marriage  should 
precede  theirs,  and,  in  the  meantime,  the  Prince  de 
Conde  availed  himself  of  the  privilege  of  a  betrothed 
lover,  in  passing  much  of  his  time  at  the  hotel  de  Mont- 
inorenci ;  but  when  there,  his  attention  appeared  more 
engrossed  by  the  parents  and  the  youthful  brother  of 
his  fiancee,  than  by  herself.  In  conversation  with  them, 
the  "shy  reserved  boy  of  Conde,"  as  Henri  Quartre 
was  accustomed  to  call  his  studious  cousin,  could  he 
eloquent,  graceful,  and  even  witty.  He  possessed 
talents  of  the  finest  order  ;  his  mind  had  been  highly 
cultivated,  and  there  was  sound  sense,  and  beautiful 
morality  in  every  thing  he  said.  Charlotte,  seated  at 
her  tapestry  frame,  beside  her  mother,  could  not  help 
listening,  at  first  with  girlish  curiosity,  but,  by  de- 
grees, with  profound  attention,  to  the  observations 
which  he  addressed  to  her  brother  on  the  course  of 
history  he  was  reading  ;  and  when  she  saw  his  pale 
cheek  kindling  with  the  glow  of  virtuous  and  heroic 
feeling,  and  his  dark  penetrating  eyes  beaming  with 
intellectual  brightness,  she  blushed  at  the  thought  that 
those  eyes  should  have  witnessed  so  much  vanity  and 
frivolity  in  herself. 

Sometimes  she  felt  mortified   that  he  addressed  so 


CHARLOTTE  DE  3I0XTM0PvEXCI.  19 

little  of  his  conversation  to  her;  and  then,  without 
reflecting  that  she  had  chilled  and  repelled  him  in  the 
first  instance,  she  was  piqued  into  a  haug-hty  imitation 
of  his  reserve,  when  alone  wilh  him;  and  when  sur- 
rounded by  the  gay  crowd  of  her  courtly  admirers, 
she  endeavored,  by  the  exercise  of  coquetry,  to  shake 
his  equanimity,  and  provoke  him  either  into  a  quarrel, 
or  an  acknov/ledgment  of  love. 

She  was  convinced  that  he  had  ceased  to  regard  her 
with  indifference  ;  for  she  had  more  than  once  de- 
tected his  lustrous  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  her  v/ith  that 
intense  expression  of  passionate  feeling,  which  can 
never  be  mistaken  by  its  object ;  yet  he  had  resolutely 
refrained  from  giving  to  that  feeling  words ;  and  it 
seemed  hard  to  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  France,  that 
she  should  be  wedded,  unwooed,  by  him  of  all  others, 
from  whom  she  most  desired  to  hear  the  language  of 
love. 

"  If  I  could  but  once  see  this  youthful  stoic  at  my 
feet,  I  should  feel  prouder  of  that  triumph  than  of  all 
the  homage  v/hich  has  been  offered  to  me  this  night 
by  '  him  of  the  white  plume,'  and  his  gallant  peers," 
sighed  Charlotte  to  herself,  as  she  v/as  returning  from 
the  last  ball  at  the  Louvre  at  which  she  was  to  appear 
as  I\Iademoisel!e  de  Montmorenci. 

It  was  the  most  brilliant  she  had  ever  attended;  and 
though  on  the  eve  of  her  bridal,  Charlotte  ventured  on 
the  hazardous  experiment  of  exciting  the  jealousy  of 
her  betrothed.  She  succeeded  only  too  well,  and 
Conde,  unable  to  conceal  his  emotion,  quitted  the  royal 
Balon  at  an  early  hour.  All  the  interest  that  the  beau- 
tiful and  admired  ?.Iademoiselle  de  Montmorenci  had 
taken  ia  the  gay  scene,  departed  with  the  pale  agitated 
stripling,  wdiorn  every  one  present  suspected  of  being 
the  object  of  her  aversion  ;  and  pleading  a  headache 
to  excuse  her  from  fulfilling  her  engagement  of  danc- 
ing a  second  time  v/ith  the  king,  pIic  retired  almost 
innnediately  aftcrv.'ards. 


«.  .    UM^tk  f—.   '*  c-^Ki*« 


20  CHAHLOTTE  DT:  MONTMORENCI. 

On  entering  her  own  apartment  her  attendant  pre- 
sented her  with  a  billet.  It  was  from  the  Prince  de 
Conde — the  first  he  had  ever  addressed  to  her. 

To  every  woman  of  scnsibilit}'  it  is  delightful  to  see 
her  name  traced,  for  the  first  time,  by  the  hand  of  the 
object  of  her  secret  regard.  Who  can  describe  the 
sweet  suspense  of  that  agitating  moment  which  must 
intervene  ere  the  seal  can  be  broken,  and  the  thrilling 
mystery  unfolded  ?  Alas,  for  Charlotte  de  Montmo- 
renei !  Her  recent  conduct  rendered  her  feelings  on 
this  occasion  the  very  reverse  of  those  blissful  emo- 
tions.  Her  color  faded,  her  knees  shook,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  her  agitated  hand  could  open  the 
letter.     It  contained  only  these  words : — = 

"Charlotte  de  Montmorexci, 

"  Late  as  it  may  be  when  you  receive  this,  I  must 
see  you  before  3'ou  retire  to  rest.  You  will  find  me  in 
the  east  saloon. 

"  Henrf  de  Conde." 

"  Not  even  the  common  forms,  unmeaning  though 
they  be,  which  courtesy  requires,  observed  in  this  his 
first,  his  ouly  communication  to  me  !"  thought  Made- 
moiselle de  Montmorenci  as  she  crushed  the  paper  to- 
gether in  her  hand.  She  turned  her  eyes  upoji  the 
dial  that  surmounted  her  tall  dressing  glass, — it  still 
wanted  five  minutes  to  midnight.  Those  five  minutes 
decided  her  destiny.  She  took  the  silver  lamp  from 
the  toilet,  and  dismissing  her  damsel,  repaired  to  the 
appointed  trysting  place ;  then,  unclosing  the  door 
with  a  tremulous  hand,  she  stood  before  Conde  with  a 
cheek  so  pale,  that  when  he  caught  the  first  glimpse 
of  her  dimly  shadovved  reflection  in  the  cold  glassy 
surface  of  the  mirrored  panel,  opposite  to  which  he  was 
standing,  he  absolutely  started  ;  so  different  did  she 
look  from  the  sparkling,  animated  beaut)',  whom  he  had 


CHARLOTTE  DE  MOXTMORENCI.  21 

left,  scarcely  an  hour  ago,  leading  off  the  dance  witli 
royalty  in  the  glittering  salons  of  the  Louvre.  Conde 
had,  in  fact,  neither  anticipated  her  early  return  home, 
nor  the  prompt  attention  she  had  paid  to  his  some- 
what uncourlcous  summons  ;  far  less  was  he  prepared 
for  indications  of  softness  and  sensibility,  jvherehehad 
expected  to  encounter  only  coldness  and  pride.  He 
advanced  a  step — one  step  only — to  meet  her  ;  then 
paused,  and  silently  awaited  her  approach.  The  glance 
which  Charlotte  ventured  to  steal  as  she  placed  her 
lamp  on  the  marble  table  at  which  he  stood,  revealed 
to  her  the  air  of  stern  resolve  with  which  his  lofty 
brow  Vv"as  compressed ;  the  only  trace  of  the  passion- 
ate emotion  that  had  so  recently  shaken  his  firm  spirit, 
was  a  slight  redness  about  his  eyes. 

"  Charlotte  dc  Montniorcnci,"  said  he,  addressing 
her  in  a  low  deep  voice,  "  I  hold  in  m.y  hand  the  con- 
tract of  our  betrothment.  Tiiat  contract  was  signed 
by  you  with  evident  reluctance,  and  it  will  cost  you  no 
pain  to  cancel  it."  He  paused,  and  fixed  his  dark 
penetrating  eyes  on  her  face  as  if  to  demand  an  an- 
swer. 

Charlotte  tried  to  speak,  but  there  was  a  convulsive 
rising  in  her  throat  that  prevented  articulation.  The 
glittering  carcanet  that  encircled  her  fair  neck  ap- 
peared, at  that  moment,  to  oppress  her  with  an  insuf. 
ferable  weight,  and  to  have  suddenly  tightened  almost 
to  suffocation.  She  drev.'  a  deep  respiration,  and  rais. 
ing  her  trembling  hands,  essayed  to  unloose  the  clasp, 
but  in  vain.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  hysterical  emo, 
tion  that  oppressed  her  v/as  occasioned  by  the  weight 
of  this  costly  ornament  and  its  rich  appendages,  and 
that  her  life  depended  on  her  instant  i-elease  from  their 
pressure  ;  and  after  a  second  iueifectual  attempt  to 
unclasp  the  jeweller  circlet,  she  actually  turned  an 
imploring  glance  for  help  upon  the  real  cause  of  her 
distress,  her  offended  lover.  Co.ide's  assistance  v.-as 
o 


22  CHARLOTTE  DE  MONTMOREXCI. 

promptly  accorded ;  but,  either  through  the  mtricacj' 
of  the  spring,  or  his  inexperience  in  all  matters  relat. 
ing  to  female  decorations,  or,  it  might  be,  that  he  was 
at  that  moment  not  less  agitated  than  his  pale  and 
trembling  fiancee,  his  attempts  to  unclasp  the  carca- 
net  were  as  unsuccessful  as  her  own.  While  thus 
employed,  her  silken  ringlets  were  mingled  with  his 
dark  locks,  and  more  than  once  his  bro v.-  came  in  con- 
tact  with  her  polished  cheek  ;  and  when,  at  last,  by  an 
effort  of  main  strength,  he  succeeded  in  bursting  the 
fastening  of  the  jewelled  collar,  she  sunk  with  a  con- 
vulsive  sob  into  the  arms  that  were  involuntarily  ex- 
tended to  receive  her.  For  the  first  time,  Conde  held 
the  forraof  perfect  loveliness  to  his  bosom,  and  forget- 
ful of  all  the  stern  resolves  that  had,  for  the  last  few 
hours,  determined  him  to  part  with  her  for  ever, — for. 
getfal  of  pride,  anger,  jealousy,  and  reason  itself,  he 
covered  her  cold  forehead  with  passionate  kisses,  and 
implored  her,  by  every  title  of  fond  endearment,  to  re- 
vive. Tliose  soothing  words,  those  tender  caresses, 
recalled  her  to  a  sweet  but  agitating  consciousness  ; 
and  when  she  perceived  on  whose  breast  she  was  sup- 
ported,  a  burst  of  tears  relieved  her  full  heart,  and  she 
sobbed  with  the  vehemence  of  a  child  that  cannot  cease 
to  weep  even  when  the  cause  of  its  distress  has  been 
removed. 

"  Speak  but  one  word,"  cried  Conde.  "  Have  I  oc 
oasioned  this  emotion — these  tears'?" 

Charlotte  could  not  speak,  but  her  silence  was  elo- 
quent. 

'•  Nay,  but  I  must  be  told,  in  explicit  terms,  that 
you  love  me,"  cried  Conde  ;  "  it  is  a  point  on  which  I 
dare  not  suffer  myself  to  be  deceived." 

"  Mighty  fine  !"  said  the  fair  Montmorenci,  suddenly 
recovering  her  vivacity  and  smiling  through  her  tears; 
"  and  so  you  have  the  vanity  to  expect  that  1  am  to 
reverse  the  order  of  things,  and  play  the  wooer  to  you, 
for  your  more  ncrfect  sati<;fa."tion.  after  yon  have  in- 


CHARLOTTE  DE  3I0NT.M0RENCI.  23 

formed  me  of  your  obliging  intention  of  cancelling  our 
contract  of  betrothment." 

"Ah,  Charlotte  I  if  you  did  but  know  how  nmch  I 
have  suffered  before  I  could  resolve  to  resign  the  hap- 
piness of  calling  you  mine  I" 

"Well,  if  you  are  resolved,  I  have  no  more  to  say,'* 
rejoined  Charlotte,  proudly  extricating  herself  from  his 
arms. 

"  But  I  have,"  said  Conde,  taking  her  by  both  her 
hands,  which  he  retained  in  spite  of  one  or  two  per- 
verse attempts  to  withdraw  them.  "  Fie,  this  is  child- 
ish petulence !"  cried  he,  pressing  them  to  his  lips  ; 
"  but,  my  sweet  Charlotte,  the  moment  is  past  for 
trifling  on  either  side.  These  coquetries  might  have 
cost  us  both  only  too  dear."  His  lip  quivered  with 
strong  emotion,  as  he  spoke,  and  the  large  tears  stole 
from  under  tlie  downcast  lashes  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Montmorcnci.  "  We  have  caused  each  other  much 
pain  for  want  of  a  little  candor,"  pursued  he. 

"Why,  then,  did  you  not  tell  me  that  you  loved 
me  ?"  whispered  Charlotte. 

"  Because  I  dared  not  resign  my  heart  into  your 
keeping  before  I  was  assured  that  I  might  trust  you 
with  my  honor." 

♦'  Oh,  heavens  1"  exclaimed  Charlotte,  becoming  very 
pale  ;  "  and  is  it  possible  that  you  could  doubt  ?" 

"  Charlotte,  I  was  too  well  acquainted  with  the 
king's  character  to  behold  the  undisguised  manifesta- 
tions  of  his  passion  for  my  affianced  bride  with  indif. 
ference.  The  attentions  of  a  royal  lover  were  flatter- 
ing,  I  perceived,  to  the  vanity  of  a  young  and  beauti- 
ful  woman.  The  complacency  with  v.hich  they  were, 
at  times,  received,  and  my  knowledge  of  the  motives 
which  induced  the  king  to  break  your  first  engage- 
ment with  Bassompierre,  were  sufficient  to  alarm  a 
man  of  honor,"  said  Conde  witli  a  darkening  brow. 

"  y^u  are  talking  in  enigmas,  Henri  dc  Conde,"  re- 
joined  Mademoiselle  de  Montmorenci. 


24  CHjVRLOTTE  de  .montxorenci. 

"  If  you  are  ignorant  of  the  fact,  that  Henri  of 
France  separated  you  from  his  handsome  favorite,  be- 
cause he  feared  tliat  such  a  husband  would  be  a  for. 
midable  rival  to  himself,  no  one  else  is ;  for  Bassom- 
pierre  has  made  the  particulars  of  his  sovereign's  con- 
versation with  him  on  that  subject  too  public  for  it  to 
remain  a  matter  of  doubt.  You  look  incredulous, 
Charlotte,  but  you  shall  hear  the  very  words  in  which 
the  king  made  this  audacious  declaration — '  I  am,  my- 
self,'  said  he  to  Bassompierre,  '  madly  in  love  with  your 
beautiful  Montmorenci.' " 

"  Ha  !  did  he,  a  married  man,  dare  to  make  such  an 
acknowledgment." 

"  Yes,  Charlotte  ;  and,  moreover,  impudently  added, 
« If  she  loves  you,  I  shall  detest  you.  You  must  give 
up  cither  her  or  me.  You  will  not  of  course  risk  the 
loss  of  my  favor.  I  shall  marry  her  to  my  cousui 
Conde.'  Yes,  Charlotte,  the  plain  '  shy  boy  of  Condc,' 
as  he  generally  styles  me,  was  designed  for  the  honor 
of  being  this  husband  of  convenience  ;  but  had  I  known 
his  guileful  project  at  the  time  when  he  required  mc 
lo  sign  the  contract,  net  all  the  powers  of  France,  nor 
even  the  influence  of  your  charms,  should  have  bribed 
me  to  subscribe  tliat  paper." 

"  It  is  not  now  irrevocable,"  said  Charlotte,  proudly. 

*'  It  is  if  you  are  willing  to  accede  to  the  conditions 
on  which  I  am  ready  to  join  in  its  fulfilment." 

"  Name  them." 

"You  must  see  the  king  no  more  after  our  mar- 
riage." 

"  That  will  be  no  sacrifice ;  and,  after  your  com- 
munication, I  could  not  look  upon  him  without  indig. 
nation.  How  little  did  I  imagine  that  such  baseness 
could  sully  the  glory  of  him  of  whom  fame  has  spoken 
such  bright  things !" 

*'  Charlotte,  it  is  his  prevailing  foible.  The  sin  that 
was  unchecked  in  youth,  gained  strength  in  middle 
age,  and  now  amounts  lo  madness.     There  will  be  no 


CHARLOTTE   Dil  IvIO^TMOKIi>iCJ.  2o 

security  for  our  vredded  happiness  if  we  rcuiaiu  in  his 
dorninioiis  ;  but  can  I  ask  you  to  forsake  friends  and 
country  for  mc  ?"  said  Conde. 

"  Shall  I  not  find  all  these  things,  and  more  also,  in 
the  husband  of  my  heart?"  returned  Charlotte,  ten- 
derly. 

•'Ah,  CiiarloUc,  can  you  fjrgivc  my  ungentle 
doubts  ?"  said  Conde,  throwing  liinisclf  at  her  feet. 

"  Yes,  for  they  are  proofs  of  the  sincerity  of  your 
affcetion  ;  and  hr^d  you  been  less  jealous  of  jrsy  honor, 
I  should  not  have  loved  you  so  well,"  said  she. 
"  From  thirf  hour  we  are  as  one  :  and  it  will  be  the 
happiness  of  n»y  life  to  resign  ir<yself  to  your  guid- 
anee." 

"Then,  ray  sweet  Chariot' e,  I  must,  for  the  sake  of 
the  fading  roses  on  these  fair  checks,  dismiss  you  to 
your  pillow,  without  farther  parlance,"  returned  Conde. 
They  exchanged  a  mute  caress,  and  parted. 

The  marriage  was  celebrated  wilh  royal  pomp  on 
the  following  day,  at  high  noou,  in  the  church  of  Notre 
Dame.  Conde  received  his  lovely  bride  from  the  hand 
of  his  roval  rival ;  but  t!ie  king's:  e.xuliation  in  the  sue 
cess  of  {he  deep  laid  sclicnie,  by  which  he  had  sepa- 
rated the  object  of  his  lawless  pas.siou  from  her  first 
lover,  to  unite  her  with  one  from  whom  he  vainly  im- 
agined he  should  have  little  to  fear,  was  of  brief  dura- 
tion. The  nuptial  festivities  received  a  sudden  inter, 
niption  on  the  following  raornirtg,  in  consequence  of 
the  disappearance  of  both  brido  and  bridegroom  ;  and 
what  was  stranger  still,  it  was  soon  discovered  that 
thej^  had  eloped  together.  The  good  people  of  Paris 
were  thrown  into  the  most  viv^acious  amazement  at  an 
event  so  entirefy  without  parallel,  either  iu  history, 
poetry,  or  romance,  as  the  first  prince  of  the  blood 
running  away  with  his  ov.n  v.-ife  ;  and  their  astonish- 
ment increased,  when  the  circiunstances  of  this  lav.'- 
fil  f-bduction  transpired,  by  v.-hich  it  appeared  that 
the  Prince  de  Coiule,    accompanied   by   his  illustrious 


26  CHARLOTTE  DK  r.lONTMUREIS'Cl. 

bride,  quitted  their  chamber  aa  hour  before  dawn,  and 
that  he  had  actually  carried  her  off,  riding  behind  hiiu 
on  a  pillion,  disguised  in  the  grey  frieze  cloak  and 
hood  of  a  farmer's  wife. 

The  enamored  king,  transported  with  rage  at  hav- 
ing been  thus  outwitted  by  the  boy -bridegroom,  gave 
orders  for  an  immediate  pursuit.  The  wedded  lovers 
vrcrc,  however,  beyond  his  reach.  They  had  crossed 
the  Spanitl;  frontier  before  their  route  was  traced,  and 
Philip  the  Third  afforded  them  a  refuge  in  his  domin- 
ions. ♦ 

The  refusal  of  that  monarch  to  give  up  these  illus- 
trious  fugitives,  produced  a  declaration  of  war  from 
Henri.  He  was,  in  fact,  so  pertinacious  in  his  at- 
tempts to  obtain  possession  of  the  object  of  his  lavrlcss 
passion,  that  it  was  not  till  after  his  death  that  Conde 
ventured  to  return,  with  his  lovely  wife,  from  the  vol- 
untary  exile  to  which  they  had  devoted  themselves  as 
a  refuge  from  dishonor.  The  splendid  talents  and  no- 
ble qualities  of  Henri  dc  Conde  have  obtained  for  him 
so  distinguished  a  place  in  tlie  annals  of  his  country, 
that  the  title  of  the  "  Great  Conde"  would  undoubt- 
cdly  have  pertained  to  him,  if  the  renown  of  his  illus. 
trious  son,  by  Charlotte  dc  ]Montmorcnci,  had  not,  in 
affer  years,  transcended  his  own. 

History  has,  with  her  usual  partiality,  passed  lighth' 
over  this  dark  spot  in  the  character  of  the  gay,  the 
gallant,  the  chivalric  Henri  Qaartre,  without  bcstovv'- 
iiig  a  single  comment  on  the  lofty  spirit  of  honorable 
independence  that  characterized  the  conduct  of  iiis 
youthful  kinsman  on  this  trying  occasion  ;  and  has  lefL 
Vv-holly  unnoticed  the  virtue  and  conjugal  heroism  of 
the  high-born  beauty,  who  nobly  preferred  sharing  the 
poverty  and  exile  of  her  husband,  to  all  the  pomp  and 
distinctiojis  that  Vverc  in  the  gift  of  a  royal  lover. 


27 

BY  XKS.  L.  n.  SIGOURNEY. 

1  HEARD  tlic  forests  as  Ihej  cried 

Unto  the  valleys  green, 
''  Where  is  that  red-browed  hunter  race 

Who  loved  our  leafy  screen  ? 
They  humblcxi  'mid  these  dewy  glades 

The  red-deer's  autlered  crown, 
Or,  soaring  at  his  highest  noon, 

Struck  the  strong  eagle  dc.vn." 

Then  in  the  zephyr's  voice  replied 

Those  vales  so  meekly  blest : 
"  Tliey  reared  their  dwellings  on  our  side, 

Their  corn  upon  our  breast; 
A  blight  came  down,  a  blast  s?;cpt  by, 

The  corn-roofed  cabins  fell, 
And  where  that  exiled  people  fled 

It  is  not  our's  to  tell." 

Niagara,  of  the  niouutaintj  grey, 

Demanded  from  his  throne, 
And  old  Ontario's  billowy  lake 

Prolonged  the  thunder-tone, — 
'•  Tiiosc  chieftains  at  our  side  who  stood 

Upon  our  christening  day, 
Who'  gave  the  glorious  names  vre  hear, 

Our  spon^jors — where  are  they  ?" 

And  then  the  fair  Ohio  charged 

Her  many  sisters  dear, 
'•  Show  me,  once  moi'c,  those  stately  fjrnii 

Within  my  mirror  clear." 


28  THE  DKEAM  OF  MCSiC. 

But  they  replied,  "Tall  barks  of  pride 

Do  cleave  our  waters  blue, 
And  strange  keels  ride  our  father's  tide, 

But  where  's  their  light  canoe  ?" 

The  farmer  drove  hi?  ploughshare  deep — 

'•  Whose  bones  arc  thes^e  ?"  said  he  ; 
"  I  liad  them  where  my  browsing  sheep' 

Roaia  o'er  the  upland  lea  :" 
But  s;-arting  sudden  to  his  path 

A  phantom  seemed  lo  glide, 
A  plume  of  feathers  on  his  head, 

A  quiver  at  liis  side. 

He  pointed  lo  the  rifled  grave, 

Then  raised  his  hands  on  high, 
And  with  a  hollow  groan  invoked 

The  vengeance  of  the  sky  ; 
O'er  the  broad  realm,  so  long  his  own, 

Gazed  with  dcspairi))g  ray, 
Then  on  the  mist  that  slov.'ly  curled 

Fled  mournfuliv  awav. 


LY  MISS  II.   r.   GOULD. 

I  dreamed  a  bright  angel  bO  near  me  was  singing. 

My  spirit  seemed  resting  at  last  at  tiie  goal ; 
The    deep-going  strains    through   my    bosom    were 

bringing 
The  pure  oil  of  joy  to  pour  over  my  soul. 

So  sweet,  so  entrancing,  llic  spell  that  had  bound  mc, 
The  rudeness  of  earth  melted  off  by  its  power; 

The  air  of  an  Eden  scenjed  wafting  around  me 
The  tccnt  oflJie  fr;:it  r-nd  t}:e  spice  of  the  flower. 


THE  riOTHEELESS.  29 

The  voice,  to  my  breast  new  emotions  revealing, 
Had  lulled  every  dissonant  heart-string  to  peace  ; 

Its  wounds   were   all   touched  with   the  unction   of 
healing, 
And  darkness  was  fading,  in  glory  to  cease. 

So  holy  the  rapture,  so  blissful  the  dreaming, 
I  felt  that  mine  eye  never  after  could  weep  I 

Yet  fain  had  I  wept,  when  the  morn  with  her  beaming 
Too  soon  romid  my  pillow  had  broken  my  sleep. 

My  angel  departed  ;  with  slumber  in  flying 

The  music  was  lost,  and  will  bless  me  no  more  I 

For  earth  seemed  defied  by  the  last  note  in  dying, 
To  breath  it  again,  or  its  charms  to  restore. 

My  spirit  must  listen  and  sigh  for  it  ever, 

While  through  life's  dark  desert  a  pilgrim  I  roam  ; 

But  once  heard  below  to  invite  me,  it  never 

Repeats  the  sweet  call — 't  was  a  song  of  my  home- 


BY  SARAH  STICKNEY. 

Why  do  I  love  the  motherless  ? 

Oh  I  canst  thou  ask  of  me, 
"Who  never  knew  the  joys  that  bless 

A  cherished  infancy  ; 
Who  only  felt  the  dreary  void, 

The  sadness  of  my  lot. 
The  bitterness  of  hopes  destroyed 

By  those  who  knew  them  not  ? 


30  THE  MOTHERLESS. 

I  was  a  dark  and  moody  child, 

They  thought  my  feelings  cold  ; 
But  had  a  mother  fondly  smiled, 

The  truth  had  all  been  told ; 
The  truth  that  closed  my  aching  eyes 

On  many  a  burning  tear  ; 
That  in  my  bosom  checked  the  sighs, 

And  sealed  my  lips  with  fear. 


I  might  have  been  all  tenderness, 

Had  such  to  me  been  shown  ; 
And  less  neglected,  sorrowing  less, 

A  sweeter  child  had  grown  ; 
But  when  I  would  have  thrown  my  arms 

Around  some  gentle  neck, 
Then  cold,  cold  words,  and  wild  alarms, 

My  fervent  soul  would  check. 


I  was  not  lovely,  light,  nor  gay, 

Nor  formed  to  be  beloved  ; 
And  thus  they  chid  me  at  my  play, 

My  childish  sports  reproved  : 
They  made  me  what  I  ne'er  had  been 

But  for  their  stern  control ; 
1  thought,  sometimes,  they  might  have  seen 

The  anguish  of  my  soul.  # 


I  was  not  lovely,  and  I  knew 

My  step  was  void  of  grace  ; 
The  youthful  beauty  never  threw 

Its  magic  o'er  my  face  ; 
All  this  too  truly  could  I  prove 

By  many  a  slighted  kiss. 
But  oh  !  I  thought  a  mother's  love 

Would  have  forgiven  me  this. 


THE  .T-OLIAX  HARP.  31 

And  tlien  I  pored  on  senseless  things^ 

That  could  not  lauorh  to  scorn, 
All,  all  the  fond  imaginings, 

Of  young  Affection  born  ; 
I  loved  the  trees,  the  summer  flowers. 

The  wild  bird's  evening  lay, 
Tlie  lonely  dell,  the  silent  hours, 

That  glide  in  dreams  away. 

The  Iamb  deserted  by  the  herd 

Companion  found  in  me  ; 
I  cherished  many  a  wounded  bird. 

And  oft  I  wept  to  see 
The  drooping  wing,  the  pilfered  nest,    • 

Hope's  sunny  schemes  o'erlhrown, 
The  pining  of  the  lonely  breast, 

That  was  too  like  my  own. 

'T  is  thus  I  love  the  motherless, 

Their  sorrows  seek  to  share, 
Their  lone  uncherished  lot  to  bless, 

Even  with  a  sister's  care  ; 
With  that  fond  )'^earning  of  the  heart. 

None  ever  felt  for  me, 
To  dry  the  tear,  and  soothe  the  smart 

Of  joyless  infanc}". 


BY  r.IRS.  AEDV. 

Haup  of  soft  melotly,  when  silent  sitting, 

T  strive  to  lift  my  thoughts  from  worldly  thinj 

1  love  to  hear  the  gales  of  evening  flitting 
In  low  awakening  mm-raurs  o'er  thy  strings. 


32  ISOLINE  DE  VALMONT. 

No  haunt  is  nigli — again  the  breezes  tremble, 
Imparting  to  thy  heavenly  music  birth  ; 

Would  that  my  feeble  heart  could  thee  resemble, 
Yielding  no  answer  to  the  spells  of  earth  I 

Would  that,  by  human  lures  and  hearts  unshaken, 
My  spirit  thus  from  thraldom  could  arise  ; 

Resist  the  power  of  man  its  depths  to  waken, 
And  only  give  its  breathmgs  to  the  skies. 


A  SCENE  IN  THE  PARIS  REVOLUTION  OF  1830. 

BY  MRS.  WALKER. 

I  ^VAs  resident  in  Paris  during  the  three  days'  Hevo- 
lution  of  July,  1839.  When  the  com't  and  its  conse- 
quences had  been  discussed  in  every  bearing ;  when 
the  shout  of  triumph,  the  song  of  victory,  and  the  w^ail 
of  bereavement,  were  hushing  into  silence  ;  the  tale 
and  the  anecdote  of  those  who  had  striven  and  suffered 
succeeded  to  more  exciting  and  absorbing  topics. — 
The  journals  teemed  Vv'ith  historieties,  and  every  soiree 
had  its  raconteur,  who  appealed  to  our  sympathies, 
and  "  beguiled  us  of  our  tears"  with  some  new  and 
touching  narrative.  Among  those  which  my  memory 
chronicled,  the  following  arrested  my  attention  forci- 
bly, inasmuch  as  I  had  frequently  met  the  daughter  of 
de  Valmont  in  society  ;  and  possibly  it  may  not  be 
found  altogether  devoid  of  interest  to  others. 

In  the  gay  salons  of  Paris,  in  the  season  of  1830, 
there  were  few  demoiselles,  who  attracted  greater  no, 
tice  than  Isoline  do  Valmont.     It  is  a  frequent  remark 


isoLiNE  DE  va:.mont.  33 

that,  though  beauty  is  more  generally  distributed 
among  the  women  of  England  than  those  of  France, 
yet,  when  possessed  by  the  latter,  it  is  of  a  higher  and 
more  unquestionable  character  ;  as  if  Nature  reserved 
all  her  gifts  for  her  few  and  special  favorites,  and 
lavished  her  bounty  upon  them  in  prodigal  profusion. 

And  certainly  Isolinc  was  one  of  these.  The  large 
dark  blue  eye,  with  its  long  silken  fringe ;  the  fair 
round  cheek,  to  which  emotion  only  lent  a  crimson 
glow  ;  the  waves  of  blackest  shining  hair  ;  w^ere  com- 
bined with  a  form,  taller  and  more  exuberant  than  her 
countrywomen  can  usually  boast,  and  features  whose 
expression  blended  the  innocence  of  infancy  with  that 
pure  spiritualized  loveliness,  which  expresses  the  depth 
and  earnestness  of  the  mind  within.  The  admiration 
v/hich  her  beauty  challenged,  her  manners  confirmed. 
.Soft,  tender,  caressing,  she  gathered  around  her  the 
sympathies  of  all  classes,  from  her  own  community  of 
feeling  with  their  joys  and  sorrows.  The  circumstances 
of  her  birth  and  present  position  did  not  tend  to  lessen 
the  interest  which  her  appearance  excited.  Her  moth- 
er— Ijefore  marriage  Mademoiselle  dc  Montmorency — 
died  in  the  same  hour  which  gave  her  infant  birth. 
The  daughter  of  one  of  the  proudest  and  noblest  of  the 
French  aristocracy,  she  had  left  the  convent  Vv'here  she 
had  been  educated  but  a  few  months,  when,  at  the 
chateau  of  a  maternal  aunt,  in  Burgundy,  where  a  large 
party  vv-ere  assembled  to  enjoy  the  vintage,  she  mot 
with  Monsieur  de  Valmont.  Undistinguished  by  birth, 
unendowed  with  fortune,  he  yet  possessed  v/hat  to  wo- 
manly calculation  is  of  far  greater  worth — a  noble 
person,  and  gentlemanly  bearing.  His  admiration  of 
Mademoiselle  dc  Montmorency  was  ardent  and  undis- 
guised. She  listened  to  its  expression  until  the  feel- 
ing  became  reciprocal.  A  fev.-  weeks  passed  under  the 
same  roof  consolidated  the  attachment ;  and  a  few 
months  subsequently  they  were  privately  married. 
For  a  while  the  secret  obtained  not  circulatioii.  But 
3 


34  ISOLINE  DE  VALMONT. 

the  hour  of  discovery  came  at  last,   and  brought  with 
it  misery  and  wo. 

The  obscurity  of  de  Vahnont  had  of  itself  presented 
a  sufficient  barrier  to  forgiveness,  but  a  yet  more  alien- 
ating  and  exasperatmg  cause  existed  in  the  fact  that 
he  was  avovredly  of  the  wildest  republican  principles, 
the  descendant  of  a  regicide  !  Without  a  franc  for  a 
marriage  dowry,  with  only  the  bitter  and  awful  portion 
of  a  father's  curse,  his  bride  was  cast  forth  from  her 
proud  ancestral  halls,  to  privation  and  poverty.  But 
the  discipline  of  adversity  ill  accorded  with  the  gentle 
nature  of  Madame  de  Valraont.  She  lived  but  to  bring 
her  child  into  a  bleak  and  pitiless  world,  and  the  first 
anniversary  of  the  day  which  had  witnessed  her  ill- 
fated,  unsanctioned  nuptials,  beheld  her  laid  in  the 
quiet  grave. 

Then  was  it  that  the  natural  disposition  of  de  Val- 
mont  fully  developed  itself.  Fierce,  morose,  vindic- 
tive, he  had  been  coerced,  if  I  may  so  express  myself, 
from  his  original  nature,  into  comparative  mildness,  by 
the  presence  of  his  meek,  devoted  w^ife.  This  link  to 
goodness  and  principle  wrenched  asunder,  he  stood 
forth  at  war  vrith  himself,  his  species,  and  his  destin}'. 
Idle  by  temperament,  vain,  and  selfish,  he  flattered 
himself  that  in  an  alliance  with  the  house  of  Montmo- 
rency he  should  find  at  once  affluence  and  aggrandize- 
ment. Though  thwarted  in  his  expectations  at  the 
onset,  by  the  declared  hostility  of  his  wife's  parents, 
he  yet  trusted  that  time  would  mitigate  resentment, 
and  no  distant  hour  see  her  reinstated  in  the  affection 
and  dignities  which  she  had  once  enjoyed.  This  hope 
was  for  ever  blasted  ;  even  the  infant  she  had  left  they 
refused  to  see  ;  and  they  rejected  with  haughty  scorn 
every  eff'ort  he  made  towards  reconciliation  and  par- 
don. 

De  Vahnont  had  loved  his  wife  passionately  and 
profoundly.  His  grief  at  her  death  was  vehement  and 
sincere ;   "but   it   Vv'as  transient.     With  a  desperation 


JSOLl.NE   DE  VAL.MOrs'T.  85 

characteristic  of  his  disposition  and  circumstances,  he 
rushed  from  the  house  of  mourning  into  riot  and  rev- 
elry,  and  sought,  by  plunging  into  every  dissipation 
that  offered,  oblivion  for  his  sorrows. 

Having  from  early  youth  been  addicted  to  gambling, 
he  now  adopted  it  as  a  profession.  The  excitement 
suited  him  not  less  than  the  possibility  of  unlabored 
competence  which  it  suggested.  He  became  a  system- 
atic gamester,  the  most  unvarying  attendant  at  Fras. 
cati's,  as  well  as  habitually  the  most  successful.  How 
did  it  revolt  the  pure  nature  of  Isoline,  when  years 
brought  capacity  to  comprehend  the  degradation,  that 
her  father  drew  subsistence  for  himself  and  her  from 
the  plunder  of  the  unwary,  the  ruin  of  the  thoughtlessi 
During  the  period  of  her  education,  the  fact  had  not 
reached  her ;  but,  when  called  on  to  preside  over  his 
hearth  and  home,  it  was  too  soon  revealed.  She  be- 
sought him  earnestly,  passionately,  to  abandon  the 
path  which  he  had  chosen.  But  he  heard  her  with  a 
sigh,  advanced  the  fixedness  of  long  habit  and  his  own 
inability  now  to  acquire  any  profesf^ion,  as  palliatives 
in  her  eyes,  and  left  her  to  follow  again  his  disgrace- 
ful career. 

Isoline  wept  silently  and  bitterly ;  she  loved  her  fa- 
ther with  passionate  fondness,  and  his  love  for  her  was 
akin  to  worship.  She  resolved  to  qualify  herself  for 
the  support  of  them  both,  by  the  exercise  of  her  musi- 
cal talents,  which  were  of  first  rate  power.  Her  voice, 
too,  was  one  of  remarkable  beauty  and  compass.  It 
was  her  uitention,  when  duly  prepared,  to  assist  at 
private  and  public  concerts,  and  seek,  by  industry  and 
perseverance,  to  obtain  a  reputable,  probably  ample, 
livelihood  for  herself  and  her  father.  Wherever  her 
purpose  was  confided,  it  met  vv  ith  ready  and  eager  pat- 
ronage and  encouragement.  The  commiseration  which 
the  reckless  character  of  her  father,  contrasted  with 
her  own  unvarying  rectitude,  excited  ;  her  singul.-.r 
loveliness,  and  the  continued  estrangement  and  hcs- 


36  ISOLINE  DE  VALMONT. 

tility  of  her  mother's  family  ;  all  contributed  to  invest 
her  with  an  extraordinary  interest.  With  truth  might 
it  be  said  that  she  was  the  admiration  of  every  circle— 
the  idol  of  her  own. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning  of  the  ever-memorable 
29th  of  July,  "the  closing  day  of  the  Paris  Revolution. 
One  broad  blaze  of  sunlight  flooded  the  heavens  and 
illumined  the  earth.  It  shone  in  on  many  a  chamber 
of  agony  and  suffering ;  and  in  every  countenance 
that  its  beams  irradiated  were  stamped  in  legible  cha- 
racters traces  of  anxiety  and  care.  Few  had  retired 
to  rest  the  two  preceding  nights  ;  for  who  could  sleep 
while  the  dreary  monotonous  tocsin  affrighted  the  ear 
with  its  mournful  echoes,  and  the  sharp  shrill  sound  of 
musketry — for  in  many  cases  night  did  not  avail  to 
separate  the  combatants — came  booming  through  the 
air  ?  The  dead  on  both  sides  lay  yet  unburied,  and 
the  issue  of  the  warfare  had  not  arrived  to  determine 
under  what  denomination  the  originators  and  abetters 
of  the  conflict  should  be  classed — whether  mourned  as 
martyrs  to  liberty,  v\-ith  a  nation's  tears  shed  over  their 
graves  ;  or  stigmatized  as  rebels  to  their  king  and 
comitry,  and  consigned  to  the  dust,  unlamented,  im- 
honored,  and  unsung. 

The  drapeau  hlanc  still  waved  over  the  turrets  of 
the  Tuillerics,  for  Charles  X.  still  sat  on  a  throne  which, 
however,  was  now  momently  sinking  from  under  him. 
The  streets,  broken  up  into  barricades — alas !  how 
many  streaming  with  blood  I — were,  even  at  this  early 
hour,  filled  with  eager  groups,  balancing  the  amount  of 
yesterday's  strife,  or  speculating  on  the  events  of  the 
coming  day.  Excitement  was  at  its  height ;  and  to 
those  within,  every  moment  brought  some  report  of 
victory  or  defeat,  often  framed  less  in  accordance  with 
truth  than  the  political  bias  of  the  party  who  uttered 
it.  But  it  soon  became  evident  that  the  time  was  fast 
approaching  when  the  force  adverse  to  the  existing 
monarchy  would  triumph.     It  was  a  day  of  intense 


ISOLIiNE   DE   VALiMOrvT.  37 

.';ad  't)rcathless  anxiety  to  all,  to  none  more  ihan  to 
Isoline.  With  tJic  ardent  vivacity  of  her  countrywo- 
men, her  every  energy  was  enlisted  in  the  cause  of  lib- 
erty. Restrained  by  her  sex  from  participating  in  the 
contest,  she  chared  with  the  Sisters  of  Charity  the 
task  of  administering  to  tJie  necessities  of  the  wounded 
and  dying  at  the  Hotel-Dici;.  And  no  voice  was  sweet- 
er  in  cheering  tlic  sulTerer,  no  hand  tenderer  in  present- 
ing the  xncdicinc-cup,  or  applying  the  bandage.  She 
had  obeyed  the  summons  of  humanity,  when  the  artil- 
lery was  roaring  through  the  streets,  and  the  path  from 
her  iiome  to  the  hospital  v.'a.s  beset  with  danger. 

The  evening  of  the  29th  had  arrived.  Exhausted 
hy  the  fatigue  of  the  day,  Eickencd  v.ith  the  sights  of 
honor  whic'i  crcry  where  met  her  view,  Isoline  felt 
overpowered  acd  faint.  Her  pale  cheek  and  tottering 
frame  attracting  the  notice  of  one  of  the  ph^^sicians  in 
attendance  at  the  hospital,  who  vras  a  personal  friend, 
he  warmly  urged  her  to  leave  a  scene  where  Death's 
darkening  shadows,  gatherhig  over  hundreds  of  vic- 
tims, flung  a  gloom  over  the  spirits  of  all,  and  to  re- 
inrn  to  her  home. 

Yielding  to  his  entreaties,  she  left  the  IIotel-Dieu. 
By  taking  an  obscure  and  circuitous  route,  she  had 
reached  in  safely  the  Rue  St.  iionorc.  It  was  blociced 
up  by  the  contending  parties.  To  escape  the  bails 
vvhizzing  around  her,  slic  turned  into  a  retired  street. 
Even  thither  did  the  assailants  come.  The  air  Avas 
rent  v.'ith  shouts  of  defiance,  and  thickened  with  the 
smoke  of  discharged  musketry.  Tliough  thus  prevent- 
ed by  the  shades  of  evening  and  cloud  5  of  vapor  from 
diEcerniiig  objects  very  distinctly,  .she  yet  observed 
two  comba- ants,  who  fouglit  with  a  savage  desperation, 
which  told  indeed-  that  *'  true  foes  once  met  part  but 
in  death."  She  crept  under  a  wall,  and  Vtatched  the 
contest  v;ith  a  sort  of  fascinated  earnestness.  By  a 
sudden  moven:eat  she  obtained  a  nearer  view  of  their 
fates.  She  looked  again  with  a  raze  v.-bich  fcsmcd  to 
3' 


38  ISOLINE  DE  VAL3I0^'T. 

stretch  her  eje-balls  to  bursting,  and  recognised  in  one 
of  the  combatants — her  father !  opposed  to,  as  she 
fatally  fancied,  a  young  officer  in  the  garde  du  corps 
to  whom  she  was  secretly  betrothed. 

Without  waiting  to  ascertain  if  her  fears  were  cor- 
rect,  she  rushed  forward  with  fi-antic  eagerness.  At 
that  moment  her  father's  pistol  was  levelled  at  the 
heart  of  his  adversary.  She  strove  to  wrest  the  weap- 
on from  his  grasp.  He  turned  sharply  round  ;  the 
pistol,  by  the  suddenness  of  the  movement,  swerved 
from  its  aim,  and  exploded.  Its  contents  lodged  in  the 
heart  of  Isoline  I  One  deep  groan,  one  low  gasping 
sob,  and,  with  the  life-blood  welling  from  her  innocent 
breast,  she  reeled  towards  her  father,  and  fell  dead  at 
his  fet  1 1 

Those  who  were  near  declare  that  the  shriek  v.-as 
scarcely  human,  which  rent  the  air  when  the  wretched 
parent  discovered  that  she,  whose  Avarm  blood  crim- 
soned his  garments,  whom  he  had  been  accessory  in 
forcing  from  time  into  eternity,  was  his  adored  and 
gentle  child.  He  refused  at  first  to  believe  in  her  iden- 
tity— then  denied  assent  to  the  fact  of  her  death.  Push- 
ing aside  the  clustering  ringlets  from  her  face — lovely 
even  in  the  ashy  aspect  of  death — he  knelt  by  her  side, 
kissed  her  vehemently,  calling  on  her  to  conjc  back  to 
his  arms  and  love.  But,  when  silence  was  the  only 
ansu-er  to  his  passionate  intreatics — when  compelled 
to  believe  that  she  v.- as  dead  indeed — with  a  shrill. 
])icrcing  cry,  which  seemed  to  condense  the  essence  of 
all  human  agony,  he  fell  on  her  body  in  merciful  un- 
consciousness I 

'The.  beautiful  cemetry  of  Pcre  la  Chaise  seldom  fails 
to  obtain  from  strangers  who  sojourn  In  the  French 
capital  early  inspection  and  unqualified  admiration. 
The  serious  and  the  contemplative  visit  it,  and  find  in 
the  unbroken  stillness  of  its  verdant  paths,  in  the  moul- 
dering decay  of  its  consecrated  sepulchres,  food  for 
solemn  and  holy  meditation.     The  young  and  the  sen- 


ISOLLNE  DE  VALMO.NT.  2\) 

sitive  visit  it.  They  fi-om  whose  lips  burst  the  loudest 
laugh  of  joyousness,  yet  who  weep  the  readiest  and  th.e 
bitterest  tears — ihcy  go  thither  to  commune  with  the 
spirits  of  the  gifted  and  lovely,  who  lie  crumbling  at 
their  feet.  Even  the  gay,  the  thoughtless,  and  the 
happy,  on  whom  the  touch  of  sadness  never  yet  hath 
fallen  : — even  they,  the  affluent  in  bliss — visit  it  to  ad- 
mire the  tastefulness  of  its  design,  the  splendor  of  its 
mausoleums,  and  to  peruse  its  tender  and  affecting 
epitaphs,  the  offerings  of  lavish  love  to  the  cold  dust, 
now  deaf  alike  to  the  ban  of  censure  and  to  the  voice 
of  praise.  AVliy  is  it  that  persons  differing  in  age,  sex, 
and  temperament,  yet  so  generall}'  unite  in  deriving  a 
mysterious  pleasure  from  a  ramble  in  a  churchyard  ? 
Is  it  that  they  hope  to  dive  into  the  secrets  of  another 
world,  by  hovering  over  the  last  resting-places  of  per^ 
ished  humanity  ?  Whatever  the  motive  that  leads  us 
thither,  the  churchyard  is  usually  the  first  object  of  a 
traveller's  visit,  the  one  in  vrhich  he  lingers  longest. 

The  Sunday  succeeding  the  termination  of  the  Rev- 
olution v.-as  appointed  for  the  obsequies  of  many  of  its 
victims.  The  inhabitants  of  Paris,  obeying  their  na^ 
tional  impulse,  v,hich  has  so  justly  won  for  them  the 
s.!>pclIation  of  a  sight-seeking  population,  thronged  the 
Boulevards,  through  which  the  cavalcade  was  to  pass, 
in  countless  masses.  And  it  would  not  have  been  very 
cas^y  for  a  stranger  at  first  sight  to  decide  whether  an 
occasion  of  joy  or  sorrow  had  congregated  them  to- 
gether. So  alien  arc  any  fixed  habits  of  melancholy 
from  the  character  of  the  French,  that  their  grief, 
extravagant  in  its  first  outbreak  over  the  death-bed  of 
their  kindred,  frequently  has  expended  itself  and  set- 
tled down  into  comparative  inditferenee  before  the 
grave  has  closed  over  a  parent  or  a  child.  I  may  be 
pardoned  for  saying  this,  from  witnessing  the  demean- 
or  of  those  who  followed  the  mournful  procession  to 
the  place  of  its  destination,  the  cemetery  of  Pere  la 
Chaise,  and  'rrouncd  themselves  around  the  graves  of 


40  ISOLLNE  DE  VAL3I0.NT. 

those  interred.  True,  there  was  much  gesticulation  ; 
and  there  were  some  stormy  ebulitions  of  sorrow 
among  the  few.  But  there  was  none  of  that  expres- 
sion of  overwhelming  grief,  "which  lies  too  deep  for 
tears  ;"  none  of  that  profound,  earnest,  settled  anguish, 
either  discernible  in  the  mourners,  or  diffused  among 
the  multitude,  which  I  am  convinced  a  similar  occa. 
sion  would  have  called  fo)-th  in  England. 

The  ceremony  was  concluded,  the  crowd  dispersed, 
and  only  a  few  straggler?,  like  myself,  left  of  the  hun- 
dreds, who,  a  brief  time  before,  lined  the  avenues  of 
Pere  la  Chaise. 

I  strolled  towards  the  chapel,  which,  erected  at  the 
highest  point  of  the  cemetery,  commands  so  magnifi- 
cent a  view  of  the  neighbouring  city,  with  all  its  crime 
and  sorrow,  luxury  and  destitution.  The  service  for 
the  dead  was  performing  u-ithin  the  sacred  edifice- 
My  attention  was  iastantl}'  riveted  by  a  man  v/ho  evi- 
dently  filled  the  character  of  chief  mourner.  I  have 
visited  many  receptacles  of  human  suffering,  and  seen 
the  desolation  of  the  heart  reflected  in  the  countenance, 
in,  as  1  fancied,  the  strongest  possible  aspect.  But 
never  did  I  see  misery — hopeless,  helpless,  irremedia- 
ble misery — so  appallingly  developed,  as  in  the  face  of 
that  man.  He  seemed  to  have  reached  the  utmost 
limit  of  human  agony,  to  which  the  smallest  added 
pang  must  bring  death  or  insanity. 

He  was  evidently  not  more  than  forty-five  years  of 
age ;  yet  his  head  drooped  upon  hii^;  breast ;  his  form 
was  bent  to  decrepitude ;  and  his  hair  Avas  utterly 
white.  I  looked  on  the  features  and  outline  of  robust 
maturity,  blended  Vvuth  the  ravages  of  extreme  old  age. 
What  a  fearful  anomaly  is  this  to  gaze  at !  And  how 
does  one  shudder  to  think  of  the  mental  rack  v.hicli 
must  have  stretched  every  fibre  of  the  soul,  ere  afflic- 
tion could  so  have  anticipated  the  work  of  years  !  His 
eye  had  a  vacant  apathy,  and  only  gleamed  with  a  ray 
of  intelligence  whp,n  glancing  towards  the  bi-^v  of  the 


ISOLINE  DE  VALMONT.  41 

dead.  Then  a  look  of  acute,  of  intensest  conscious, 
ncss,  lit  it  up. 

Two  young  men  supported  him,  or  he  would  have 
fallen.  When  the  period  arrived  for  depositing  the 
body  in  the  earth,  he  seemed  suddenly  to  recover  from 
his  trance  of  grief.  He  looked  wildly  around ;  his 
body,  before  so  bent,  was  drawn  instantly  up  to  its  nat- 
urally towering  height ;  and,  when  the  earth  rattled 
over  the  lowered  coffin,  he  sprang  a  few  paces  forward, 
and,  with  a  yell  of  such  wild  despair  as  will  ring  in 
my  ears  to  my  dying  day,  fell  on  the  ground !  They 
raised  him — but  he  was  dead  I 

At  a  soiree,  a  few  evenings  afterwards,  I  learned 
that  it  was  the  unfortunate  de  Valmont  whose  death 
I  had  witnessed.  From  the  hour  of  his  daughter's 
dissolution,  he  had  "mourned  as  one  who  would  not 
be  comforted."  Belonging  to  that  fatal  school  which 
rejects  the  healing  balm  offered  by  Christianity  to  the 
wounded  spirit,  and  which  depends  on  philosophy  for 
support  in  the  hour  of  need,  he  found,  when  support 
was  requisite,  nothing  but  the  cold  barren  maxims  of 
fortitude  to  lean  upon.  They  were  insufficient.  Re- 
fusing food  or  rest,  his  body  and  mind  sank  together. 
At  his  imperative  desire,  he  was  lifted  from  a  sick  bed 
to  attend  the  funeral — but,  the  "  silver  cord,"  too  tight- 
ly drawn,  snapped  asunder  at  his  daughter's  grave  I 

It  appeared  that  he  had  been  one  of  the  most  active 
in  projecting  and  organizing  the  revolt  against  Charles 
X.,  and  had  made  himself  conspicuous  among  the  he- 
roes of  the  "  three  days."  But,  knowing  the  appre- 
hensive love  of  Isoline,  he  had  concealed  his  participa- 
tion from  her  knowledge.  The  darling  scheme  of  his 
heart  was  achieved.  The  king  was  driven  from  his 
throne,  the  people  triumphant.  But — alas !  for  the 
vanity  of  human  desires  and  designs  I — by  association 
with  these  events,  he  became  the  murderer  of  his  be- 
loved child,  and  his  own  life  was  the  expiatory  sacrifice. 


42 


SUGGESTED  BY  A  FRENCH  ENGRAVING. 

BY  MRS.  WALKER. 

The  gorgeous  sun  is  fading  fast, 

The  languid  flowers  are  clos'd  in  sleep, 

For  all  another  day  hath  past, 

Smile  they  or  weep. 

Blent  with  the  murmurs  of  the  gale 
Come  notes  the  silence  to  dispel, 
Sounds,  sad  as  human  sorrow's  wail. 

The  fimeral  bell. 

The  church  is  gained,  the  grave  appears. 
The  unconscious  dead,  his  trials  o'er, 
Hath  reach'd  that  home,  where  grief  and  tears 
Touch  him  no  more. 

The  priest  comes  forth — looks  round — for  where 
Are  they  who  sorrow  o'er  the  bier  ? 
No  choking  sob  of  wild  despair 

Falls  on  the  ear. . 

Where  is  the  fond  and  changeless  friend — 
The  tender  parent — loving  wife  ? 
Ties  which  to  death  such  anguish  lend. 

Such  charm  to  life  ? 

What,  none  to  weep  thee — none  to  sigh, 
To  breathe  a  prayer,  record  thy  doom. 
Forsaken  thus — 'twas  time  to  die — 

Close  up  the  tomb  ? 


BLOWING   BURBLES,  43 

TheTrites  are  paid  ;  but  near  the  spot 
An  humble  watcher  yet  we  view, 
One  who,  when  all  forsook,  forgot, 

To  him  was  true. 

His  faithful  dog,  through  want  and  care, 
Ne'er  left  his  side  when  others  fled, 
And  now  lies  down,  and  fain  would  share 
His  master's  bed, 

Poor  brute  1  let  none  thy  love  deride. 

Nor  scoff  at  thy  fidelity  ; 

For  man,  with  ajl  bis  boastful  pride, 

Might  learn  from  thee/" 


BY  MISS  H.   F.   Gi)ULD. 

Half  our  sorrows,  half  our  troubles, 
Making  head  and  heart  to  ache, 

Are  the  fruit  of  blowing  bubbles, 
Bright  to  view,  but  quick  to  break. 

All  have  played  the  child  imbeoile, 
Breathing  hard  to  swell  the  sides 

Of  a  shining  fluid  vessel, 
Frailer  than  the  air  it  rides. 

From  the  infant's  cradle  rising, 
All  the  bubble  mania  show. 

Oft  our  richest  wealth  comprising 
In  the  bubbles  that  we  blow. 


44  BLOWING  BUBBLES. 

Brilliant,  buoyant,  upward  going, 

Pleased  we  mark  them  in  their  flight, 

Every  hue  of  Iris  showing, 

As  they  glance  along  the  light. 

Little  castles  high  and  airy, 

With  their  crystial  walls  so  thin, 

Each  presents  the  wicked  fair}', 
Vanity,  enthroned  within ! 


But,  when  two  have  struck  togcUier, 
What  of  either  do  vjc  fimd  ? 

Not  so  much  as  one  gay  feather 
Flying  Hope  has  left  behing! 


Still,  the  Vv'orld  are  busy  blowing 
Every  one  some  empty  ball ; 

So  the  seed  of  mischief  sowing 
Where  to  burst  the  bubbles  fall. 


Nor  for  self  alone  to  gather. 

Is  our  evil  harvest  found  ; 
Oft  with  pipe  and  cup  wc  rather 

Step  upon  our  neighbor's  ground. 

Thus,  amusing  one  anotlier. 

While  the  glistening  plaj^things  rise, 
We  may  doom  a  friend  or  brother 

To  a  life  of  care  and  sighs. 


Do  you  doubt  my  simple  story  ? 

I  can  point  a  thousand  ways. 
Where  this  bubble-making  glory 

Has  its  darkness  bid  in  ravs  I 


THE  mother's  sacrifice.  45 

Yet,  we'll  epare  a  slight  confusion 
Caused  the  world  by  giving  names, 

Since  a  right  to  some  delusion 
Every  one  from  Nature  claims  ! 


7M2  [isa©'irKi[i:33©  sa©:k]?o©2. 

BY  MRS.   L.   H.   SIGOUENEY. 
"  God  loveth  a  cheerful  giver." 

""What  shall  I  render  Thee,  I'ather  Supreme, 
For  thy  rich  gifts,  and  this  the  best  of  all  ?  " 
Said  the  young  mother,  as  she  fondly  watched 
Her  sleeping  babe.     There  was  an  answering  voice, 
That  night,  in  dreams : — 

"  Thou  hast  a  tender  flower 
Upon  thy  breast — fed  with  the  dews  of  love  : 
Lend  me  that  flower.  Such  flowers  there  are  in  heaven  " 
But  there  was  silence.     Yea,  a  hush  so  deep, 
Breathless  and  terror-stricken,  that  the  lip 
Blanched  in  its  trance. 

"  Thou  hast  a  little  harp, 
How  sweetly  would  it  swell  the  angels'  Jiymn  : 
Yield  me  that  harp." 

There  rose  a  shuddering  sob, 
As  if  the  bosom  by  some  hidden  sword 
Was  cleft  in  twain. 

Morn  came — a  blight  had  found 
The  crimson  velvet  of  the  unfolding  bud, 
The  harp-strings  rang  a  thrilling  stram,  and  broke — 
And  that  young  mother  lay  upon  the  earth, 
In  childless  agonv. 
4 


46  THE  FORSAKEN  FRIEND, 

Again,  the  Voice 
That  stirred  her  vision — 

"He  wiio  asked  of  thee 
Loveth  a  cheerful  giver."     So  she  raised 
Her  gushing  eyes,  and,  ere  the  teardrop  dried 
Upon  its  fringes,  smiled — and  that  meek  smile. 
Like  Abraham's  faith,  was  counted  righteousness 


BY  SARAH  STICKNEY. 

At  early  morn  these  fragile  flowers  were  blowing, 

All  sweet  and  fair  ; 
On  the  wild  breeze  their  odorous  burden  throwing, 

Scenting  the  air. 

At  early  morn  with  buoyant  step  I  sought  thee, 

Friend  of  my  youth  ! 
A  blooming  garland  from  the  fields  I  brought  thee, 

With  my  soul's  truth. 

I  knew  not  then  thy  fickle  heart  was  altered, 

Nor  read  thine  eye  ; 
I  thought  the  welcome  of  thy  sweet  voice  faltered^ 

But  asked  not  why. 

And  now  I  keep  these  fair  but  slighted  flowers, 

Unfaded  yet ; 
Have  they  not  taught  me,  in  a  few  short  hours, 

How  to  forget  ? 

There  wanted  but  one  fatal  word  to  sever 

Our  hearts  in  twain  ; 
That  word  thy  lips  have  spoken,  and  we  never 

Can  trust  again. 


THE  FORSAKEN  FRIE.ND.  47 

Thou  wilt  go  forth  on  summer's  fragrant  morning, 

Once  more  to  see 
Her  radiant  smile  the  purple  hills  adorning, 

But  not  with  me. 

I  shall  be  where  no  household  memories  waken 

Thoughts  of  the  past ; 
I  shall  forget.     The  lonely  and  forsaken 

Forget  at  last. 

I  shall  forget  thee  ;  many  a  deeper  sorrow 

Has  been  forgotten  : 
But  yet  I  dare  not  look  into  the  morrow 

Where  thou  art  not. 

I  dare  not  think  how  oft  my  fond  heart's  yearnmg 

Will  wake  again ; 
How  I  shall  watch  to  see  thy  smile  returning. 

And  watch  in  vain  : 

For  thou  couidst  teach  what  nothing  else  had  taught  me 

From  early  youth  ; 
Not  all  the  wisdom  of  the  world  had  brought  me 

So  deep  a  truth  ; — 

That  human  lovj,  however  pure  its  fountain, 

May  waste  away, 
Like  the  fresh  dew  upon  the  verdant  mountain, 

At  dawn  of  day  ; — 

That  this  fair  earth,  with  all  its  gorgeous  beauty, 

Its  fruits  and  flowers, 
Forms  not  the  scope  of  human  love  or  duty, 

Though  once  of  ours. 


48 

BY  MISS  MITFORD. 

I  AM  no  politician,  no  reasoner  upon  church  and 
state,  the  evil  or  the  good  of  their  connexion  ;  a  con= 
nexion  pretty  ancient,  as  far  as  words  go,  and  tolera- 
bly convenient,  at  times,  to  both  parties,  in  spite  of  the 
jangling  which  may  have  occasionally  occurred  in  this 
as  in  other  unions. 

Of  late  years,  however,  there  has  been  a  prodigious 
change  in  the  body  clerical.  The  activity  of  the  dis- 
senters, the  spread  of  education,  and  the  immense  in- 
crease of  population,  to  say  nothing  of  that  "  word  of 
power,"  Reform,  have  combined  to  produce  a  stirring 
spirit  of  emulation  amongst  the  younger  clergy,  which 
has  quite  changed  the  aspect  of  the  profession.  Here- 
tofore, the  "  church  militant"  was  the  quietest  and 
easiest  of  all  vocations  ;  and  the  most  slender  and  lady, 
like  young  gentleman,  the  "  mamma's  darling"  of  a 
great  family,  whose  lungs  were  too  tender  for  the  bar, 
and  whose  frame  was  too  delicate  for  the  army,  might 
be  sent  Avith  perfect  comfort  to  the  snug  curacy  of  a 
neighboring  parish,  to  read  Horace,  cultivate  auricu. 
lars,  christen,  marry,  and  bury,  about  twice  a  quarter, 
and  do  duty  once  every  Sunday.  Now  times  are  al- 
tered  ;  prayers  must  be  read  and  sermons  preached 
twice  a  day  at  least,  not  forgetting  lectures  in  Lent, 
and  homilies  at  tide  times  ;  workhouses  are  to  be  vis- 
ited ;  school  attended  ;  boys  and  girls  taught  in  the 
morning,  and  grown  up  bumpkins  in  the  evening ; 
children  are  to  be  catechised  ;  masters  and  mistresses 
looked  after  ;  hymn-books  distributed ;  bibles  given 
away  ;  tract  societies  fostered  amongst  the  zealous, 
and  psalmody  cultivated  amongst  the  musical.  In 
ghort,  a  curate,  now-a-days,  even  a  country  curate. 


OUR  RECTOR.  id 

much  more  if  his  parish  lie  in  a  great  town,  has  need 
of  the  lungs  of  a  barrister  in  good  practice,  and  the 
strength  and  activity  of  an  officer  of  dragoons. 

Now  this  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be.  Nevertheless,  I 
cannot  help  entertaining  certain  relenting  in  favor  of 
the  well-endowed  churchman  of  the  old  school,  round, 
indolent,  and  unbiassed,  at  peace  with  himself  and 
with  all  around  him,  who  lives  in  quiet  and  plenty  in 
his  ample  parsonage  house,  dispensing  with  a  liberal 
hand  the  superfluities  of  his  hospitable  table,  regu- 
lar  and  exact  in  his  conduct,  but  not  so  precise  as  to 
refuse  a  Saturdaj"^  night's  rubber  in  his  own  person,  or 
to  condemn  his  parishioners  for  their  game  of  cricket 
on  Sunday  afternoons ;  charitable  in  word  and  deed, 
tolerant,  indulgent,  kind,  to  the  widest  extent  of  that 
widest  word ;  but,  except  in  such  wisdom  (and  it  is  of 
the  best),  no  wiser  than  that  eminent  member  of  the 
church.  Parson  Adams.  In  a  word,  exactly  such  a 
man  as  my  good  old  friend  the  rector  of  Hadley,  who 
has  just  passed  the  window  in  that  venerable  relique 
of  antiquit}^  his  one-horse  chaise.  Ah,  we  may  see 
him  still,  through  the  budding  leaves  of  the  clustering 
China  rose,  as  he  is  stopping  to  give  a  penny  to  poor 
lame  Dinah  Moore,  stopping  and  stooping  his  short 
round  person  with  no  small  eifort,  that  he  may  put  it 
into  her  little  hand,  because  the  child  would  have  some 
difficulty  in  picking  it  up,  on  account  of  her  crutches. 
Yes,  there  he  goes,  rotund  and  rosy,  "  a  tun  of  man," 
filling  three  parts  of  his  roomy  equipage  ;  the  shovel- 
hat  with  a  rose  in  it,  the  very  model  of  orthodoxy, 
overshadowing  his  white  hairs  and  placid  countenance  ; 
his  little  stunted  post-boy  in  a  purple  livery,  driving 
an  old  coach-horse  as  fat  as  his  master,  whilst  the  old 
white  terrier,  fatter  still,  his  pet  terrier  Viper,  waddles 
after  the  chaise  (of  which  the  head  is  let  down,  in 
honor,  I  presume,  of  this  bright  April  morning)  much 
resembling  in  gait  and  aspect,  that  other  white  wad- 
4* 


50  OVK  RECTOR. 

dling  thing,  a  goose,  if  a  goose  were  gifted  with  four 
legs. 

There  he  goes,  my  venerable  friend  the  Reverend 
Josiah  Singleton,  rector  of  Hadley-cum.Doveton,  in 
the  county  of  Southampton,  and  vicar  of  Delworth,  in 
the  county  of  Surrey.  There  he  goes,  in  whose  youth 
tract  societies  and  adult  schools  were  not,  but  who  yet 
has  done  as  much  good  and  as  little  harm  in  his  gen- 
eration, has  formed  as  just  and  as  useful  a  link  be- 
tween the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  landlord  and  the  peas- 
ant,  as  ever  did  honor  to  religion  and  to  human  na- 
ture. Perhaps  this  is  only  saying,  in  other  words, 
that,  under  any  system,  benevolence  and  single-mind- 
edncss  will  produce  their  proper  effects.  I  am  not, 
however,  going  to  preach  a  sermon  over  my  worthy 
friend — long  may  it  be  before  his  funeral  sermon  is 
preached  !  or  even  to  write  his  eloge,  for  elogcs  are 
dull  things  ;  and  to  sit  down  with  the  intention  of  be- 
ing dull, — to  set  about  the  matter  with  malice  pre= 
pense  (howbeit  the  calamity  may  sometimes  happen 
accidentally).  I  hold  to  be  an  unnecessary  imperti- 
nence. I  am  only  to  give  a  slight  sketch,  a  sort  of 
bird's  eye  view  of  my  reverend  friend's  life,  which,  by 
the  way,  has  been,  except  in  one  single  particular,  so 
barren  of  incidents,  that  it  might  almost  pass  for  one 
of  those  proverbially  uneventful  narratives,  The  Lives 
of  the  Poets. 

Fifty-six  years  ago,  our  portly  rector,  then,  it  may 
be  presumed,  a  sleek  and  comely  bachelor,  left  college, 
where  he  had  passed  through  his  examinations  and 
taken  his  degrees,  with  respectable  mediocrity,  and 
was  ordained  to  the  curacy  of  St.  Thomas's  parish,  in 

our  neighboring  town  of  C ;  and  where,  by  the 

recommendation  of  his  vicar,  t)r.  Grampound,  he  fixed 
himself  in  the  small,  but  neat  first  floor  of  a  reduced 
widow  gentlev.-omau,  M'ho  endeavored  to  eke  out  a 
small  annuity,  by  letting  lodgings  at  five  shillings  a 
week,  linen,  china,  plate,  glass-,  and  waiting  included. 


OUR  RECTOK.  51 

and  by  keeping  a  toy-shop,  of  which  tlie  whole  .stock, 
fiddles,  drums,  balls,  dolls,  and  shuttlecocks,  might  be 
safely  appraised  at  under  five  pounds,  including  a 
stately  rocking-horse,  the  poor  v/jdow's  cheval-de-ba- 
taille.  which  had  occupied  one  side  of  Mrs.  Martin's 
shop  from  the  time  of  her  setting  up  in  business,  and 
still  continued  to  keep  his  station  uncheapcned  by  her 
tiu-ifty  customers. 

Tliere,  by  the   advice  of  Dr.   Grampound,   did   he 

place  himself  on  his  arrival  at  C ;  and  there  he 

conlinucd  for  full  thirty  years,  occupying  the  same 
first  floor,  the  sitting  room,  a  pleasant  apartment,  \vitli 
one  window  (for  the  little  toy-shop  was  a  corner 
Jiouse)  abutting  on  the  high  bridge,  and  the  other  on 
the  market  place,  still,  as  at  first,  furnished  with  a 
Scotch  carpet,  cane  chairs,  a  Pembroke  table,  and  two 
hanguig  shelves,  which  seemed  placed  there  less  for 
their  ostensible  destination  of  holding  books,  sermons, 
and  newspapers,  than  for  the  purpose  of  bobbing 
against  the  head  of  every  unwary  person  who  might 
happen  to  sit  down  near  the  v/all ;  and  the  small  cham- 
ber behind,  with  its  tent  bed  and  dimity  furniture,  its 
mahogany  chest  of  drawers,  one  chair  and  no  table  ; 
with  the  self-same  spare,  quiet,  decent  landlady,  in 
her  faded  but  well-preserved  morning  gov.'n,  and  the 
identical  serving  maiden,  Patty,  a  demure,  civil,  mod- 
est damsel,  du^arfed,  as  it  should  seem,  by  constant 
courtseying,  since  from  twelve  years  upwards  she  had 
not  grown  an  inch.  Except  the  clock  of  time,  which, 
however  imperceptibly,  does  still  keep  m.ovmg,  every 
thing  about  the  little  toy-shop  in  the  market  place  at 

C ,  was  at  a  stand  still.    The  very  tabby  cat  which 

lay  basking  on  the  hearth,  might  have  passed  for  his 
progenitor  of  happy  memory,  who  took  his  .station 
there  the  night  -of  Mr.  Singleton's  arrival  ;  and  the 
self-same  hobby-iiorse  still  stood  rockhig  opposite  the 
counter,  the  admiration  of  every  urchin  who  passed 
the  door,  and  so  completely  the  piide  of  the  mistress 


52  OUR  RECTOK. 

of  the  domicile,  that  it  is  to  be  questioned — convenient 
as  thirty  shillings,  lawful  money  of  Great  Britain, 
might  sometimes  have  proved  to  Mrs.  Martin — wheth- 
er  she  would  not  have  felt  more  reluctance  than  pleas- 
ure  in  parting  with  this,  the  prime  ornament  of  her 
stock. 

There,  however,  the  rocking-horse  remained  ;  and 
there  remained  Mr,  Singleton,  gradually  advancing 
from  a  personable  youth  to  a  portly  middle-aged  man  ; 
and  obscure  and  untempting  as  the  station  of  a  curate 
in  a  country  town  may  appear,  it  is  doubtful  whether 
those  thirty  years  of  comparative  poverty,  were  not 
amongst  the  happiest  of  his  easy  and  tranquil  life. 

Very  happy  they  undoubtedly  were.  To  say  nothing 
of  the  comforts  provided  for  him  by  his  assiduous  land, 
lady,  and  her  civil  domestics,  both  of  whom  felt  all  the 
value  of  their  kind,  orderly,  and  considerate  inmate  ; 
especially  as  compared  with  the  racketty  recruiting 
officers  and  troublesome  single  gentlewomen  who  had 
generally  occupied  the  first  floor.  Our  curate  was  in 
prime  favor  vvith  his  vicar.  Dr.  Grampound,  a  stately 
pillar  of  divinity,  rigidly  orthodox  in  all  matters  of 
church  and  state,  who,  having  a  stall  in  a  distant  ca- 
thedral, and  another  living  by  the  sea-side,  spent  but" 

little  of  his  time  at  C ,  and  had  been  so  tormented 

by  his  three  last  curates — the  first  of  whom  was  avow, 
edly  of  whig  politics,  and  more  than  suspected  of  hold^ 
ing  Calvinistic  doctrines  in  religion ;  the  second  a  fox 
hunter,  and  the  third  a  poet — that  he  was  delighted  to 
intrust  his  flock  to  a  staid,  sober  youth,  of  high  church 
and  tory  principles,  who  never  mounted  a  horse  in  his 
life,  and  would  hardly  have  trusted  himself  on  Mrs. 
Martin's  steed  of  wood  ;  and  whose  genius,  so  far  from 
carrying  him  into  any  flights  of  poesy,  never  went  be- 
yond that  weekly  process  of  sermon-making  which,  as 
the  doctor  observed,  was  all  that  a  sound  divine  need 
know  of  authorship,     y--- 


OUR  RECTOR.  5S5c 

vunte  willi  his  principal.  He  has  even  been  heard  to 
propliesy  tliat  the  young  man  would  be  a  bishop. 

Amongst  the  parishioners,  high  and  low,  Josiah  was 
no  less  a  favorite.  The  poor  felt  his  benevolence,  his 
integrity,  his  piety,  and  his  steady  kindness  ;  whilst 

the  richer  classes  (for  in  the  good  town  of  C ,  few 

were  absolutely  rich)  were  won  b}'  his  unaffected  good 
nature,  the  most  popular  of  all  qualities.  There  was 
nothing  shining  about  the  man,  no  danger  of  his  set- 
ting the  Thames  on  fire,  and  the  gentlemen  liked  him 
none  the  worse  for  that;  but  his  chief  friends  and  al- 
lies were  the  ladies— -not  the  young  ladies,  by  whom, 
to  say  the  truth,  he  was  not  so  much  coveted,  and 
whom,  in  return,  he  did  not  trouble  himself  to  covet, 
but  the  discreet  mammas  and  grandmammas,  and 
maiden  gentlewomen  of  a  certain  age,  amongst  whom 
he  found  himself  considerably  more  valued  and  infinite, 
ly  more  at  home. 

Sooth  to  say,  our  staid,  worthy,  prudent,  sober  young 
man,  had  at  no  time  of  his  life  been  endowed  with  the 
buoyant  and  mercurial  spirit  peculiar  to  youth.  There 
was  in  him  a  considerable  analogy  between  the  mind 
and  the  body.  Both  were  heavy,  sluggish,  and  slow. 
He  Avas  no  strait-laced  person  either  ;  he  liked  a  joke 
in  his  own  quiet  way  well  enough,  but  as  to  encoun- 
tering the  quips,  and  cranks,  and  quiddities,  of  a  set  of 
giddy  girls,  he  could  as  soon  have  danced  a  cotillion. 
The  gift  was  not  in  him.  So  with  a  wise  instinct  he 
stuck  to  their  elders  ;  called  on  them  in  the  morning  ; 
drank  tea  with  them  at  night ;  played  whist,  quadrille, 
cassino,  backgammon,  commerce,  or  lottery  tickets, 
as  the  party  might  require  ;  told  news  and  talked  scan- 
dal as  well  as  any  woman  of  them  all ;  accommodated 
a  difference  of  four  years  standing  between  the  wife  of 
the  chief  attorney  and  the  sister  of  the  principal  phy- 
sician ;  and  was  appealed  to  as  absolute  referee  in  a 
question  of  precedence  between  the  widow  of  a  post- 
captain  and  the  lady  of  a  colonel  of  volunteers,  which 


54  OUR  RECTOK. 

had  divided  the  whole  gentility  of  the  town  into  par- 
ties.    In  short,   he  was  such  a  favorite  in  the  female 

world,  that  vrhen  the  ladies  of  C (on  their  hus. 

bands  setting  up  a  weekly  card  club  at  the  Crown)  re. 
solved  to  meet  on  the  same  night  at  each  other's 
houses,  Mr.  Singleton  was,  by  unanimous  consent,  the 
only  gentleman  admitted  to  the  female  coterie. 

Happier  man  could  hardly  be,  than  the  worthy  Jo- 
siah  in  this  fair  compan}^  At  first,  indeed,  some  slight 
interruptions  to  his  comfort  had  offered  themselves,  in 
the  shape  of  overtures  matrimonial,  from  three  mam- 
mas,  tv.'o  papas,  one  uncle,  a'.id  (I  grieve  to  say)  one 
lady,  an  elderly  young  lady,  a  sort  of  dowager  spinster 
in  her  own  proper  person,  who,  smitten  with  Mr.  Sin- 
gleton's excellent  character,  a  small  independence,  be- 
sides his  curacy  in  possession,  and  a  trifling  estate 
(much  exaggerated  by  the  gossip  Fame)  m  expectan- 
cy,  and  perhaps  somewhat  swayed  by  Dr.  Grampound's 
magnificent  prophecy,  had  at  the  commencement  of 
his  career,  respectively  given  him  to  understand,  that 
he  might,  if  he  chose,  become  more  nearly  related  to 
them.  This  is  a  sort  of  dilemma  which  a  well-bred 
man,  and  a  man  of  humanity  (and  our  curate  was 
both)  usually  feels  to  be  tolerably  embarrassing.  Josi- 
ah,  however,  extricated  himself  with  his  usual  straight- 
forward simplicity.  He  said,  and  said  truly,  "that 
he  considered  matrimony  a  great  comfort,  that  he  had 
a  respect  for  the  state,  and  no  disinclination  to  any  of 
the  ladies,  but  that  he  was  a  poor  man,  and  could  not 
afi'ord  so  expensive  a  living."  And,  with  the  exception 
of  one  mamma,  who  had  nine  unmarried  daughters, 
and  proposed  waiting  for  a  living,  and  the  old  young 
lady  who  had  offered  herself,  and  who  kept  her  bed 
and  threatened  to  die  on  his  refusal,  thus  giving  him 
the  fright  of  having  to  bury  his  inamorata,  and  being 
haunted  by  her  ghost — with  these  slight  exceptions, 
every  body  took  his  answer  in  good  part. 


OUR  RECTOR.  5i 

As  he  advanced  in  life,  these  sort  of  annoyances 
ceased,  his  staid  sober  deportment,  ruddy  countenance, 
and  portly  person  giving  hini  an  air  of  being  even  older 
than  he  really  was  ;  so  that  he  came  to  be  considered 
as  that  privileged  person,  a  confirmed  old  bachelor, 
the  general  beau  of  the  female  coterie,  and  the  favorite 
rnarryer  and  christener  of  the  town  and  neighborhood. 
Xay,  as  years  wo/e  away,  and  he  began  to  marry  some 
whom  he  had  christened,  and  bury  many  whom  he  had 
married,  even  Dr.  Grampound's  prophecy  ceased  to  be 
remembered,  and  he  appeared  to  be  as  firmly  rooted  in 

C ,   as  St.  Thomas's  Church,   and  as  completely 

fixed  in  the  toy-shop  as  the  rocking-horse. 

Destiny,  however,  had  other  things  in  store  for  hun. 

The  good  town  of  C was,  to  its  own  misfortune,  a 

poor  place,  an  independent  borough,  and  subject,  ac- 
cordingly, to  the  infliction  (privilege,  I  believe,  the  vo- 
lers  arc  pleased  to  call  it)  of  an  election.  For  thirty 
years — during  which  period  there  had  been  seven  or 
eight  of  these  visitations — the  calamity  had  passed  over 
so  mildly  that,  except  three  or  four  days  of  intolerable 
drunkenness,  accompanied,  of  course,  by  a  sufficient 
number  of  broken  heads,  no  other  mischief  had  oc- 
curred ;  the  two  great  families,  Whig  and  Tory,  who 
might  be  said  to  divide  the  town,  having  entered,  by 
agreement,  into  a  compromise  to  return  one  member 
each  ;  a  compact  which  might  have  held  good  to  this 
time,  had  not  some  slackness  of  attention  on  the  part 
of  the  Whigs  (the  Blues,  as  they  were  called  in  elec- 
tion jargon;  provoked  the  Yellow  or  Tor}'  part  of  the 
corporation,  to  sign  a  requi?ition  to  the  Hon.  Mr.  Del- 
worth,  to  stand  as  tlieir  second  candidate,  and  procured 
the  novelty  of  a  sharp  contest  in  their  hitherto  peace- 
ful borough.  When  it  came,  it  came  with  a  vengeance. 
It  lasted  eight  days,  as  long  as  it  could  last.  The 
dregs  of  that  cup  of  evil  were  drained  to  the  very  bot- 
tom. Words  are  faint  to  describe  the  tumult,  the 
turmoil,  the  blustoring,  the  brawling,  the  abuse,  the 


56 


OUR  RECTOR. 


ill-will,  the  battles  by  tongue  and  fist  of  that  disastrous 
time.  At  last  the  Yellows  carried  it  by  six  ;  and  on  a 
petition  and  scrutiny  in  the  House  of  Commons,  by 
one  single  vote ;  and  as  Mr.  Singleton  had  been  en- 
gaged on  the  side  of  the  winning  party,  not  merely  by 
his  own  political  opinions,  and  those  of  his  ancient  vi- 
car, Dr.  Grampound,  but  also  by  the  predilections  of 
his  female  allies,  w^io  were  Yellows  to  a  man,  those 
who  understood  the  ordinary  course  of  such  matters 
were  not  greatly  astonished,  in  the  course  of  the  ensu- 
ing three  years,  to  find  our  good  curate  rector  of  Had- 
ley,  vicar  of  Delworth,  and  chaplain  to  the  new  mem- 
ber's  father.  One  thing,  however,  was  remarkable, 
that,  amidst  all  the  scurrility  and  ill  blood  of  an  elec- 
tion contest,  and  in  spite  of  the  envy  which  is  pretty 
sure  to  follow  a  sudden  change  of  fortune,  Mr.  Single. 
ton  neither  made  an  enemy  nor  lost  a  friend.  His 
peaceful  unoffending  character  disarmed  offence.  He 
had  been  unexpectedly  useful  too  to  the  winning  party, 
not  merely  by  knowing  and  having  served  many  of  the 
poorer  voters,  but  by  possessing  one  eminent  qualifica- 
tion not  sufficiently  valued  or  demanded  in  a  canvasser. 

He  was  the  best  listener  of  the  party*;  and  is  said 
to  have  gained  the  half-dozen  votes  which  decided  the 
election,  by  the  mere  process  of  letting  the  people  talk. 

This  talent,  which  it  is  to  be  presumed  he  acquired 
in  the  ladies'  club  at  C,  and  which  probably  contributed 
to  his  popularity  in  that  society,  stood  him  in  great 
stead  in  the  aristocratic  circle  of  Delworth  Castle. 
The  whole  family  was  equally  delighted  and  amused 
by  his  bonhommie  and  simplicity  ;  and  he,  in  return, 
captivated  by  their  kindness,  as  well  as  grateful  for  their 

•*A  friend  of  mine,  the  wife  of  a  country  member,  wlio 
was  very  active  in  canvassing  for  her  husband,  once  said 
to  me,  on  my  complimenting  her  on  the  number  of  votes 
she  had  obtained,  "  It  was  aM  done  by  listening.  Our  good 
frienda  the  voters  like  to  hear  themselves  talk.'' 


OUR  KECTOE.  57 

benefits,  paid  them  a  eincero  and  uufeigncd  homage, 
Avhich  trebled  their  good-^vill.  Never  was  so  honest 
and  artless  a  courtier.  There  was  something  at  once 
diverting  and  amiable  in  the  ascendency  v.'hich  every 
thing  connected  witli  its  patron  held  over  Mr.  Single- 
ton's imagination.  Loyal  subject  as  he  unquestionably 
was,  the  king,  queen,  and  royal  family  would  have 
been  as  nothing  in  his  eyes  compared  witli  Lord  and 
Lady  Delworth  and  their  illustrious  offspring.  He 
purchased  a  new  Peerage,  which  in  the  course  of  a 
few  days  opened  involuntarily  on  the  honored  page 
which  contained  an  account  of  their  genealogy.  Hia 
walls  were  hung  vrith  ground  plans  of  Hadley  House, 
elevations  of  Delworth  Castle,  maps  of  the  estate, 
prints  of  the  late  and  present  lords,  and  of  a  judge  of 
Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  of  a  bishop  of  George  the 
Second's,  worthies  of  the  family.  He  had  on  his  di- 
ning-room mantel-piece,  models  of  two  wings,  once 
projected  for  Hadley,  but  which  had  never  been  built, 
and  is  said  to  have  once  bought  an  old  head  of  the 
Duk-e  of  Marlborough,  which  a  cunning  auctioneer 
had  f  )bbed  off  upon  him,  by  pretending  that  the  great 
captain  was  a  progenitor  of  his  noble  patron. 

Besides  this  predominant  taste,  he  soon  began  to  in- 
dulge other  inclinations  at  the  rectory,  which  savored 
a  little  of  his  old  baclielor  habits.  He  became  a  col- 
lector of  shells  and  china,  and  a  fancier  of  tulips  ;  and 

when  he  invited  the  coterie  of  C ladies  to  partake 

of  a  syllabub,  astonished  and  delighted  them  by  the 
performance  of  a  piping  bullfinch  of  his  own  teaching, 
who  executed  the  Blue  Bells  of  Scotland,  in  a  manner 
not  to  be  surpassed  by  the  barrel  organ,  by  means  of 
which  this  accomplished  bird  had  been  instructed.  He 
engaged  Mrs.  Martin  as  his  housekeeper,  and  Patty  as 
his  housemaid,  set  up  the  identical  one-horse  chaiic 
in  which  he  was  riding  to-day,  became  a  member  of 
the  clerical  dinner  club,  took  in  the  St.  James's  Chroni- 
5 


58  OUR   RECTOE. 

cle  and  the  Gcntleuian's  Magazine,  and  was  set  down 
by  every  body  as  a  confirmed  old  bachelor. 

All  these  indications  notwithstanding-,  nothing  was 
less  in  his  contemplation  than  to  remain  in  that  forlorn 
condition.  Marriage  after  all  was  his  predominant 
taste  ;  his  real  fancy  was  for  the  ladies.  He  was  fifty- 
seven  or  thereabouts,  when  he  began  to  make  love,  but 
he  has  amply  made  up  for  his  loss  of  time,  by  marry- 
ing no  less  than  four  wives  since  that  period.  Call  him 
Mr,  Singleton,  indeed  I  why,  his  proper  name  would 
be  Doubleton.  Four  wives  has  he  had,  and  of  all  vari- 
eties. His  first  was  a  pretty,  rosy,  smiling  lass,  just 
come  from  school,  who  had  known  him  all  her  life,  and 
seemed  to  look  upon  him  as  a  school- girl  does  upon  an 
indulgent  grandpapa,  who  comes  to  fetch  her  home  for 
the  holidays.  She  was  as  happy  as  a  bird,  poor  thing, 
during  the  three  months  she  lived  with  him — but  there 
came  a  violent  fever  and  carried  her  off. 

His  next  wife  was  a  pale,  sickly,  consumptive  lady, 
not  over  young,  for  whose  convenience  he  set  up  a  car- 
riage, and  for  whose  health  he  travelled  to  Lisbon,  and 
Madeira,  and  Nice,  and  Florence,  and  Hastings,  and 
Clifton,  and  all  the  places  by  sea  and  land,  abroad  and 
at  home,  where  sick  people  go  to  get  well.  At  one  of 
which  she,  poor  lady,  died. 

Then  he  espoused  a  buxom,  jolly,  merry  widow,  who 
had  herself  had  two  husbands,  and  who  seemed  likely 
to  see  him  out  ;  but  the  small  pox  came  in  her  way, 
and  she  died  also. 

Then  he  married  his  present  lady,  a  charming  wo- 
man, neither  fat  nor  thin,  nor  young  nor  old,  not  very 
healthy  nor  particularly  sickly,  who  makes  him  very 
happy,  and  seems  to  find  her  own  happiness  in  mak- 
ing him  so. 

He  has  no  children  by  any  of  his  wives ;  but  has 
abundance  of  adherents  in  parlor  and  hall.  Half  the 
poor  of  the  parish  are  occasionally  to  be  found  in  his 
kitchen,  and  his  dining  room  is  the  seat  of  hospitality, 


THE  SONG  OF  DREAMS.  59 

not  only  to  his  old  friends  of  the  town  and  his  new 
friends  of  the  country,  but  to  all  the  families  of  all  his 
wives.  He  talks  of  them  (for  he  talks  more  now  than 
he  did  at  the  C.  election,  having  fallen  into  the  gos. 
sipping  habit  of  "  narrative  old  age")  in.  the  quietest 
manner  possible,  mixing,  in  a  manner  the  most  divert- 
ing and  the  most  miconscious,  stories  of  his  first  wife 
and  his  second,  of  his  present  and  his  last.  He  seems 
to  have  been  perfectly  happy  with  all  of  them,  espe- 
cially with  this.  But  if  lie  should  have  the  misfortvine 
to  lose  this  delightful  person,  he  would  certainly  con- 
sole himself  and  prove  his  respect  for  the  state,  by 
marrying  again  ;  and  such  is  his  reputation  as  a  sober, 
excellent  husband,  especially  in  the  main  article  of 
giving  his  wives  their  own  way,  that,  in  spite  of  his 
being  even  now  an  octogenarian,  I  have  no  doubt  there 
would  be  abundance  of  fair  candidates  for  the  heart  and 
hand  of  our  Rector. 


BY  MRS.  M.  A.  BROWNE. 

In  the  rosy  glow  of  the  evening  cloud, 

In  the  twilight's  gloom, 
In  the  sultry  noon,  when  the  flov/ers  are  bowed. 

And  the  streams  are  dumb, 
In  the  morning's  beam,  when  the  faint  stars  die 
On  the  brightening  flood  of  the  azure  sky, 

We  come ! 
Weavers  of  shadowy  hopes  and  fears, 
Darkeners  of  smiles,  brighteners  of  tears, 
We  come  1 


60  THE  SONG  OF  DREAMS. 

We  come  where  the  babe  on  its  mother's  breast 

Lies  in  slumber  deep ; 
We  flit  by  the  maiden's  couch  of  rest, 

And  o'er  her  sleep 
We  float,  like  the  honey-laden  bees, 
On  the  soft  warm  breath  of  the  languid  breeze, 

And  sweep 
Hues  more  beautiful  than  we  bring 
From  her  lip  and  her  cheek,  for  each  wandering  wing 
To  keep. 

We  linger  about  the  lover's  bower, 

Hovering  mute, 
When  he  looks  to  the  west  for  the  sunset  hour, 

And  lists  for  the  5int 
That  falls  so  lig-Jtly  on  the  grass, 
We  scarcely  hear  its  echo  pass ; 

And  we  put 
In  his  heart  all  hopes,  t'.ie  radiant-crowned, 
And  hang  sweet  tones  and  voices  round 
His  lute. 

We  sit  by  the  miser's  treasure  chest. 

And  near  his  bed, 
Aiid  we  watch  his  anxious  heart's  unrest ; 

And  in  mockery  tread 
With  a  seeming  heavy  step  about ; 
And  lauffh  when  we  hear  his  frightened  shout 

Of  dread, 
Lest  the  gnomes,  who  once  o'er  his  gold  did  reign, 
To  his  hoards  to  claim  it  back  again 
Have  sped. 

But  a  sunnier  scene  and  a  brighter  sky 

To-day  are  our's ; 
We  have  seen  a  youthful  poet  lie 

Bv  a  fountain's  showers, 


THE  VQICE  OF  HOME.  61 

With  his  upturned  eyes,  and  his  dreamy  look, 
Reading  the  April  sky's  sweet  book 

Write  by  the  hours  ; 
Thinking  those  glorious  thoughts  that  grow 
Untutored  up  in  life's  fresh  glow. 

Like  flowers. 

We  will  eatch  the  richest,  brightest  hue 

Of  the  rainbow's  rim, 
The  purest  cloud  that  'midst  the  blue 

Of  heaven  doth  swim  ; 
The  clearest  star-beam  that  shall  be 
In  a  dew-drop  shrined  when  the  twilight  sea 

Grows  dim  ; 
And  a  spirit  of  love  about  them  breathe. 
And  twine  them  all  in  a  magic  wreath 
For  him ! 


TO  THE  PRODIGAL. 

BY  MRS.  HEMANS. 

Oh  !  when  wilt  thou  return 

To  thy  spirit's  early  love  ? 
To  the  freshness  of  the  morn, 

To  the  stillness  of  the  groves  ? 

The  summer-birds  are  calling, 
Thy  household  porch  around, 

And  the  merry  waters  falling. 

With  sweet  laughter  in  their  sound. 

And  a  thousand  bright-veined  flowers, 
'Midst  the  banks  of  moss  and  fern. 

Breathe  of  the  sunny  hours — 
But  when  v/ilt  thou  return  ? 
5* 


62  THE  VOICE  OF  HOME. 

Oh  !  thou  hast  wandered  long 
From  my  home  without  a  guide, 

And  thy  native  woodland  song 
In  thine  altered  heart  hath  died. 


Thou  hast  flung  the  wealth  away, 
And  the  glory  of  thy  spring  ; 

And  to  thee  the  leaves'  light  play 
Is  a  long-forgotten  thing. 

But  when  wilt  thou  return  ? 

Sweet  dews  may  freshen  soon 
The  flower  within  whose  urn 

Too  fiercely  gazed  the  noon. 

O'er  the  image  of  the  sky 

Which  the  lake's  clear  bosom  wore. 
Darkly  may  shadows  lie — 

But  not  for  evermore. 


Give  back  thy  heart  again 
To  the  gladness  of  the  woods, 

To  the  bird's  triumphant  strain, 
To  the  mountain-solitudes  I 


But  when  wilt  thou  return  ? 

Along  thine  own  free  air, 
There  are  young  sweet  voices  borne- 

Oh  !  should  not  thine  be  there  ? 


Still  at  thy  father's  board 

There  is  kept  a  place  for  thee. 

And  by  thy  smile  restored, 
Jov  round  the  hearth  shall  be. 


THE  LOST  STAR.  63 


Still  hath  thy  mother's  eye, 
Thy  coming  step  to  greet, 

A  look  of  days  gone  hy, 
Tender,  and  gravely  sweet. 

Still,  when  the  prayer  is  said, 
For  thee  kind  bosoms  yearn, 

For  thee  fond  tears  are  shed — 
Oh  I  when  wilt  thou  return  ? 


BY  MISS  L.  E.  LANDON. 

A  LI9HT  is  gone  from  yonder  sky, 
A  star  has  left  its  sphere  ; 
The  beautiful — and  so  they  die 
In  yon  bright  world  as  here  ? 
Will  that  star  leave  a  lonely  place. 
A  darkness  on  the  night  ? 
No  ;  few  will  miss  its  lovely  face, 
And  none  think  heaven  less  bright. 

What  wert  thou  star  of — vanished  one  ? 

What  mystery  was  thine  ? 

Thy  beauty  from  the  east  is  gone  ; 

What  was  thy  sway  and  sign  ? 

Wert  thou  the  star  of  opening  youth  ? 

And  is  it  then  for  thee. 

Its  frank  glad  thoughts,  its  stainless  truth. 

So  early  cease  to  be  ? 

Of  Hope  ?— and  was  it  to  express 
How  soon  hope  sinks  in  shade  ; 
Or  el=e  of  human  loveliness. 
In  sign  how  it  will  fade  ? 


64  so:^G. 

How  was  thy  dying  like  the  song, 
In  music  to  the  last, 
An  echo  flung  the  winds  among, 
And  then  for  ever  past  ? 

Or  didst  thou  sink  as  stars  whose  light 

The  fair  moon  renders  vain  ? — 

The  rest  shine  forth  the  next  dark  night, 

Thou  didst  not  shine  again. 

Didst  thou  fade  gradual  from  the  time 

The  first  great  curse  was  hurled. 

Till  lost  in  sorrovv^  and  in  crime, 

Star  of  our  early  world  ? 

Forgotten  and  departed  star  I 

A  thousand  glories  shine 

Round  the  blue  midnight's  regal  car. 

Who  then  remembers  thine  ? 

Save  when  some  mournful  bard  like  me 

Dreams  over  beauty  gone, 

And  in  the  fate  that  waited  thee, 

Reads  what  will  be  his  own. 


BY  MRS.  CHARLES  GORE. 

He  said  my  brov/  was  fair,  't  is  true  ; 
He  said  mine  eye  had  stol'n  its  blue 
From  yon  ethereal  vault  above  ! 
Yet  still — he  never  spake  of  love. 

He  said  my  step  was  light,  I  own  ; 
He  said  my  voice  had  won  its  tone 
From  some  wild  linnet  of  the  grove  I 
Yet  still — he  never  spake  of  love. 


THE  KULEK  S  FAITH.  65 

He  said  my  cheek  looked  pale  with  thought ; 
He  said  my  gentle  looks  had  caught 
Their  modest  softuess  from  the  dove  ! 
Yet  still — he  never  spake  of  love. 

He  said  that  bright  with  hopes  divine 
The  heart  should  be  to  blend  with  mine  ; 
Fixed  where  no  stormy  passions  move  I 
Yet  still — he  never  spake  of  love. 

He  said — but  wherefore  should  I  tell 
Those  whispered  words  1  loved  so  well  ? 
Could  I  reject — could  I  reprove — 
While  still  he  never  snake  of  love? 


BY  MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY. 

"  Come,  lay  thy  hand  upon  her,  and  she  shall  live." 

Matthew,  9  :  18. 
Death  cometh  to  the  chamber  of  the  sick. 
The  ruler's  daughter,  lilie  the  peasant's  child, 
Turns  pale  as  marble.     Hark  !  that  hollow  moan, 
Which  none  may  soothe,  and  then  the  last  faint  breath 
Subsiding,  v.ith  a  shudder. 

Deep  the  wail 
That  speaks  an  idol  fallen  from  the  shrine 
Of  a  fond  parent's  heart.     A  v^^ithcred  flower 
Is  there,  oh  mother,  where  thy  proudest  hope 
Solaced  itself  with  garlands,  and  beheld 
New  buddings  every  morn. 

Father,  't  is  o'er  .' 
That  voice  is  silent  Vvhich  had  been  thy  harp, 
Quickening  thy  footsteps  nightly  toward  thy  home, 
Mingling,  perchance,  an  echo  all  too  deep 


66  THE  ruler's  faith. 

Even  with  thy  temple  -.vorship,  when  the  soul 
Should  deal  with  God  alone. 

What  sLianger-step 
Breaketh  the  trance  of  grief?  Whose  radiant  brow 
In  meekness  and  in  majesty  doth  bend 
Beside  the  bed  of  death  ? 

"  She  doth  but  sleep, 
The  damsel  is  not  dead." 

A  smothered  hiss 
Contemptuous,  rises  from  that  wondering  band, 
Who  beat  the  breast,  and  raise  the  licensed  wail 
Of  Judah's  mourning. 

Look  upon  the  dead  ! 
Heaves  not  the  winding-sheet  ?    Those  trembling  lids, 
What  peers  between  their  fringes,  like  the  tint 
Of  dewy  violet  ?     The  blanched  lips  depart, 
And  what  a  quiv^ering  long-drawn  sigh  restores 
Their  rose-leaf  beauty.     Lo,  that  claj^-cold  hand 
Doth  clasp  the  Master's,  and  with  sudden  spring 
That  shrouded  sleeper,  like  a  timid  fawn, 
Hides  in  her  mother's  bosom.     Faith's  strong  root 
Was  in  the  parent's  spirit,  and  its  fruit 
How  beautiful  I 

O  mother  I  who  dost  gaze 
Upon  thy  daughter,  in  that  deeper  sleep 
Which  threats  the  soul's  salvation,  breathe  her  name 
To  thy  Redeemer's  ear,  both  when  she  smiles 
In  all  her  glowing  beauty  on  the  morn. 
Or  when  at  night  her  clustering  tresses  sweep 
Her  downy  pillow,  in  the  trance  of  dreams. 
Or  when  at  pleasure's  beckoning  she  goes  froth, 
Or  to  the  meshes  of  an  earthly  love 
Yields  her  young  heart,  be  eloquent  for  her, 
Take  no  denial,  till  the  gracious  hand 
Which  raised  the  ruler's  dead,  give  life  to  her, 
That  better  life,  whose  power  surmounts  the  tomb. 


67 


BY  MISS  LAWRANCE. 

"  Tf  there  be  one  that  can  foretell 
The  fixt  decrees  of  fate,  he,  too,  should  know 
What  is  within  the  everlasting  book 
Of  destiny  decreed  cannot  by  wit 
Or  man's  invention  be  dissolved  or  shunned." 

LoDovic  Barry. 

The  period  distinguished  by  the  wars  of  the  Roses, 
although  characterized  perhaps  beyond  any  other  by 
the  unprincipled  strife  of  ambitious  nobles,  and  by 
those  restless  and  capricious  changes  of  popular  feeling 
which  always  indicate  a  transition  state  of  society, 
although  exhibiting  few  instances  of  pure  and  lofty 
patriotism,  or  generous  self-devotion,  is  yet  intensely 
interesting,  from  the  solemn  moral  lesson  which  each 
page  presents.  From  the  murder  of  the  Duke  of 
Gloster  to  the  death  of  Richard  at  Bosworth,  all  along 
the  track  of  those  disastrous  forty  years,  vengeance, 
slow  but  unerring,  is  seen,  like  the  fabled  Nemesis, 
following,  with  stealthy  footsep,  each  short-lived  claim- 
ant of  power,  and  meting  out  his  just  doom.  Each 
and  all  are  involved  in  the  web  of  inextricable  fate  ; 
the  deceiver  is  deceived,  the  betrayer  is  betrayed,  the 
murderer  falls  beneath  the  axe  or  dagger,  while  omen, 
prophecy,  dream,  prognostic,  each  mysterious  shadow- 
ing forth  of  the  unknown  future,  sheds  a  poetical  char- 
acter over  each  scene.  And,  arising  partly  from  the 
unsettled,  though  advancing,  stale  of  knowledge,  but 
more  from  the  changeful  aspect  of  public  affairs,  scarce- 
ly can  any  period  be  found  in  our  history,  vvhen  an  in- 
sight into  futurity  was  more  earnestly  desired,  or 
when  those  delusive  fancies  which  gave  not  only  to  the 
star,  but  to  the  plant,  the  ge:n,  and  the  flower,  tl 


68  EAUL  Vv- AKVviCK  S  SEAL  RING. 

facility  of  revealing  it,  were  more  eagerly  believed  and 
pursued.  Startled  and  amazed  at  the  unlooked-for 
events  which  each  day  brought  to  pass  around  them, 
men  turned  from  a  changcfal  world  to  question  the 
steadfast  stars,,  and,  anxious,  restless,  and  distrustful 
of  their  fcllow-inen,  they  sought  by  charm  and  spell  to 
wrest  from  the  lofty  intelligences  of  the  spheres  that 
unerring  knowledge,  that  potent  aid,  Vvhich  from  the 
inhabitants  of  the  earth  they  might  ask  in  vain.  And 
thus  the  knowledge  tliat  taught  the  attainment  of  an 
insight  into  futurity  was  the  knowledge  sought  for  be- 
vond  all  other  ;  and  thus  was  it  that,  at  a  period  when 
''old  things  were  passing  away,"  and  men  stood,  though 
they  knew-  it  not,  upon  the  brink  of  a  new  ocean  that 
was  soon  to  swallow  up  the  institutions,  religious  and 
political,  of  mediaeval  Europe,  each  wild  dream,  and 
each  lofty  theory,  which  sought  to  link  the  fleeting 
destinies  of  man  with  an  unseen  world,  was  eagerly 
cherished  by  the  ardent  student ;  and  astrology  took 
up  her  unrebuked  abode  in  college  halls,  and  in  con- 
vent cells,  and  many  an  ecclesiastic,  too  willingly  for- 
getful that  all  searches  into  the  future  is  sm,  laid  aside 
the  ponderous  tomes  of  Peter  Lombard  and  St.  Thom- 
as Aquinas  to  gazo  on  the  bright  face  of  heaven,  and 
exchanged  for  the  astrolabe  and  horoscope  his  accus. 
tomed  crucifix  and  breviary. 

And  a  frequent  theme  of  boastful  gratulation  among 
the  canoes  of  the  richly  endowed  priory  of  St.  Martin 
le  Grand  was  it,  that  one  of  the  most  learned  of  astro- 
logers dwelt  among  them  ;  and  often,  while  the  humble 
citizen,  half  ashamed,  half  afraid,  knocked  at  the  iron- 
barred  door  of  the  sanctuary  of  St.  Martin,  to  seek, 
silver  groat  in  hand,  a  revelation  of  the  future  from 
some  "figure-caster"  or  diviner,  vvhom  fear  of  the  gal- 
lows-tree had  sent  thither  for  refuge ;  even  the  first 
nobles  of  the  land,  leaving  their  richly-trapped  palfreys 
before  the  great  gate,  proceeded,  not  to  the  church  to 
ask  counsel  of  Heaven,  but  to  the  study  of  Dr.   Rey. 


EARL   WARWICK'S  KEAL  Rl^G.  69 

nold  Bourchier,  prepared  to  "raise  up  strife  and  de- 
bates," or  to  sit  quietly  at  home — to  maintain  the  cause 
of  the  White  Rose,  or  to  fling  out  the  banner  of  the 
Red — even  as  the  stars,  through  the  obscure  and  often 
unintelligible  reply  of  their  hierophant,  should  deter- 
mine. 

A  right  learned  man,  truly,  was  Dr.  Reynold  Bour- 
chier,  although  neither  j'outh  nor  even  middle  age  had 
been  passed  in  the  cloister.  The  younger  branch  of 
the  ancient  family  of  the  Bourchiers,  Lords  Berners, 
the  father  of  a  promising  family,  and  engaged  in  courts 
and  camps,  little  did  he  once  think  that  a  cloister  would 
be  his  retreat  in  age,  and  the  book  of  the  stars  his  sol- 
ace :  better  for  him  had  it  not  been.  But  in  the  earli- 
er  contests  of  the  Roses  he  had  suffered  loss ;  in  one 
of  those  wide-spreading  epidemics  which  were  always 
termed  the  plague,  all  his  family,  save  one,  had  been 
cut  off,  and  Reynold  Bourchier  quitted  England,  to 
forget,  in  other  lands,  his  sorrows  and  his  losses.  At 
length,  after  many  years'  absence,  he  returned,  and 
through  the  favor  of  that  noble  who,  even  then,  swayed 
the  destinies  of  the  house  of  York — Warwick — a  por- 
tion of  his  lands,  Lancastraiu  though  he  still  avowed 
himself,  was  restored  to  him,  and  he  took  up  his  abode, 
and  eventually  the  habit,  by  persuasion  of  his  distant 
relative.  Cardinal  Bourchier,  Archbishop  of  Cantebu- 
ry,  in  the  priory  of  St.  Martin's  le  Grand.  And  there, 
engaged  in  the  delusive  study  of  astrology,  and  sincere- 
ly believing  its  truth,  the  learned  canon  of  St.  iVIar- 
tin's  passed  his  days,  devoting  all  his  energies  to  the 
search  into  futurity,  and  to  wild  and  vain  conjectures 
what  might  be  the  lot  of  that  young  boy,  his  only  grand- 
son, who,  the  son  of  an  attainted  Lancastrian,  and  born 
amid  poverty  and  ruin,  had  yet  been  pointed  out  by  a 
right  learned  astrologer  as  he  in  whose  hands  "  the 
fate  of  England's  crown  should  be." 

It  was  in  the  evening  of  the   14th  of  April,  1461, 
♦  hat  Dr.  Reynold  Bourchier  was  seated  a*  his  desk  in 
6 


70  EARL  Wi 

his  study,  while,  occupying  the  high-backed  oak  arm- 
chair,  with  eyes  intently  and  inquiringly  fixed  on  him, 
sate  a  middle-aged,  dark-haired,  slern-featured,  man, 
whose  loose  cloak  almost  concealed  from  view  the 
gold-broidered  vest,  sure  proof,  in  that  age  of  sumptu- 
ary laws,  that  the  wearer  bore  the  rank  of  an  Earl. 
But  no  ordinary  nobleman  was  he  who  sat  v*-atching 
earnestly,  as  the  scholar  the  lips  of  his  teacher,  the 
solemn  brow  of  the  astrologer,  but  Richard  Neville, 
Earl  of  Salisbury  and  Warwick,  Lord  High  Chamber- 
lain of  England,  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  aad  Captain 
of  Calais,  that  most  fortunate  of  nobles,  that  most  in- 
domitable of  warriors,  that  first  of  Edward's  subjects, 
if  subject  he  might  be  called.  At  length  Dr.  Bour- 
chier  spoke.  "  There  is  jeopardy,  and  much  that  time 
alone  may  discover ;  still  the  stars  point  out  a  yet  lof- 
tier destiny, -and  seem  to  say  '  all  things  are  possible 
to  Warwick.' " 

"  But  this  secret  mission  to  bring  home  a  bride  for 
Edward?  Said  ye  not  that  he  v.'ould  wed  at  home? 
and  said  ye  not  my  daughter  Anne  should  be  queen  ?" 

"  So  saith  her  horoscope  ;  but  there  are  other  kings 
besides  Edu'avd,"  replied  the  astrologer. 

Warwick  looked  angrily  at  the  speaker.  "  What ! 
is  the  Red  Rose  to  lift  her  head  again  ?" 

"What  will  be,  will  be,"  was  the  solemn  reply; 
'•  for  the  present,  the  star  of  York  is  in  the  ascendant." 

"  Aiid  shall  be,  while  Warwick  hath  voice  to  com- 
mand, Qi-  hand  to  fight ;  no,  the  swan  may  take  wing, 
and  the  antelope  flee,  but  the  white  bear  will  ever  be 
steadfast  to  the  white  falcon  of  York." 

"  Be  calm.  Lord  Warwick,"  said  Dr.  Bourchier. 

"Ye  are  a  Lancastrian,"  returned  Warwick  impet- 
uously^f  and  therefore  ye  see  omens  of  ill  to  York." 

"  I  sec  none  to  York,  but  soothly  I  see  vchat  I  would 
not  in  this  mission  ;  when  set  you  out  ?" 

"  As'speedily  as  a  fortunate  dav  may  be  found." 

•That  will  be  long." 


EAEL  WARWICK  S  SEAL  RING.  71 

"  Perchance,  after  all,  my  mission  may  not  succeed, 
for  it  is  no  wish  of  Edward's,  and  I  may  see  my  first 
wish  fulfilled,  mj  grandchildren  heirs  to  tBe  crown  of 
Plantagenct." 

The  astrologer  drew  a  huge  book  to  him,  and  slowly 
turned  over  the  leaves  ;  he  paused,  as  though  engaged 
in  anxious  thought,  and  at  length  said,  "  Lord  War- 
wick, wouldst  thou  learn  thy  future  destiny,  watch 
when  the  Complin  bell  strikes,  and  thou  shalt  know." 

"  Whatever  be  that  destiny,  I  shall  ever  adhere  to 
York,"  said  Warv/ick,  sternly. 

"  Say  nought,  Lord  Warwick — watch  and  see." 

"  St.  George  !  thou  bitter  Lancastrian,  shall  I,  who 
have  sworn  eternal  hate  to  Margaret — I,  who  with 
my  own  hands  led  King  Henry  to  the  Tovrer — I,  who 
swore  through  life  and  death  never  to  desert  the  cause 
of  York,  when  we  exchanged  our  rings  before  the  high 
altar  at  Canterbury — I,  who  placed  with  my  own 
hands  the  crown  on  young  Edward's  head  ! — nay,  said 
ye  not  yourself  that  our  destinies  are  linked  together 
for  weal  and  for  wo  ?" 

"  For  weal  or  for  wo,  Lord  Warv\-ick — and  destinies 
may  be  linked  in  hate  as  in  love." 

"  They  are  linked  in  love,  old  man,"  cried  Warwick 
fiercely.  "  Seek  not  to  cozen  vie  with  lying  prophe- 
cies ;  let  the  Red  Rose,  an  she  dare,  lift  her  head 
again  ;  still  shall  she  find  me  ready  to  throw  down  the 
gage,  and  bid  my  deadliest  enemy  take  it  up ;"  and, 
almost  unconsciously,  he  started  up,  drew  off  his  broi- 
dered  glove,  and  flung  it  on  the  ground. 

"  Touch  it  not,  Lord  Warwick,"  said  the  astrologer, 
solemnly  ;  "  the  hour  is  come,  and  the  man,  for  your 
deadliest  enemy  is  at  hand." 

The  deep-toned  bell  of  St.  Martin's  tolled  loud  and 
clear,  and  Warvv'ick,  awe-struck,  stood  gazing  at  the 
closed  door. 

"  Away,  Lord  Warwick!  there  are  footsteps  on  the 
stairs  ;  hide  behind  the  traverse,"  said  the  astrologer. 


7'3  SABL  Warwick's  seal  bing. 

as,  wiLh  an  interest  that  was  even  painful,  he  watched 
the  opening  door  and  him  who  now  entered,  and  en- 
tered laughingly. 

He  was  of  tall  and  singularly  graceful  figure  ;  of  his 
features,  which  were  shrouded,  and  evidently  inten- 
tionally, in  the  large  mantle,  but  little  could  be  seen, 
save  a  bright,  merry,  blue  eye ;  but  that  eye  was  suf- 
ficient  to  reveal  to  Warwick  that  no  deadly  enemy,  no 
fierce  Lancastrian,  stood  before  him,  but  he  to  whom 
just  before  he  had  pledged  his  faith,  he,  on  whose  head 
he  had  placed  the  crown — Edward,  the  King  ! 

"Ha!  what  omen  is  this  ?"  cried  he,  bounding  reck- 
lessly  forward,  and  snatching  up  the  glove  ;  "  would 
it  had  been  a  fair  lady's  I" 

A  second  person,  shorter,  and  equally  shrouded  from 
view,  who  had  followed  him  in,  drew  him  aside  and 
whispered  eanestly  to  him.  He  drew  back,  and  the 
other  came  forward.  "  We  arc  sons  of  a  country 
knight,"  said  he  :  "  my  brother  is  about  to  marry  one 
of  two  fair  damsels,  but  the  one  is  English,  the  other 
French ;  nov/  which  shall  he  take  ?"  and  he  laid  a 
small  piece  of  parchment,  which  contained  a  horoscope, 
before  the  astrologer,  who,  casting  an  earnest  glance 
toward  the  disguised  monarch,  unfolded  it.  Long  and 
anxiously  did  he  pore  over  it,  regardless  of  the  impa- 
tience manifested  by  his  visitants.  "  He  will  take  the 
English  woman,"  said  he,  at  length. 

Edward  laughed  loudly.  "  Many  thanks,  Sir  Astro- 
loger,  for  your  pleasant  prediction,"  said  he,  carelessly 
tossing  a  purse  of  rose-nobles  on  the  desk.  "  Ay, 
Richard,  your  falcon  is  mine,  fairly  won  by  St.  Mary." 
His  companion  earnestly  pressed  his  arm,  and  spoke 
some  words  in  too  low  a  tone  to  be  heard,  and  they 
hastily  quitted  the  room. 

"  And  this  is  my  deadliest  enemy  !"  cried  Warwick, 
rushing  from  behind  the  traverse,  almost  ere  the  door 
had  closed.     "  Old  man,   what  mean  you  ?"  and  the 


EARL  WARWICK'S  SEAL  RING.  73 

quivering  lip  and  the  deadly  paleness  of  his  brow  told 
how  struck  he  had  been  with  the  omen. 

"He  is,"  said  Dr.  Bourchier,  solemnly  ;  "  know  ye 
him?" 

"  Know  him  ?  Holy  saints  !  who  knows  not  Ed- 
ward ?" 

"  The  horoscope  I  well  knew  to  be  his,  and  I  ear. 
nestly  endeavored  to  see  v.-ho  had  brought  it ;  but 
surely  never  would  the  king  himself  be  the  bearer. 
St.  Mary  !  Edward  of  York  in  my  cell." 

"  He  was,  and  his  brother  Richard.  Ye  know  him 
not  as  I  do ;  what  is  there  foolish  or  reckless  that  Ed- 
ward of  York  would  not  go  after  most  willingly  ?  Ye 
see  the  match  with  the  lady  Bona  liketh  not  him,  and, 
half  in  sport,  half  in  earnest,  he  hath  wagered  with  his 
brother  to  come  hither  and  ask  your  counsel." 

"  The  holy  saints  have  you  ever  in  their  steadfast 
keeping,  Lord  Warwick  I"  said  Dr.  Bourchier,  earn- 
estly gazing  upon  the  awe-stricken  countenance  of  that 
bold  warrior,  who,  on  the  battle-field,  had  never  known 
fear.  "  Little  as  yourself  could  I  ever  believe  that 
King  Edward  v.'ould  seek  my  counsel.  But  it  hath 
been  so  ;  he  hath  taken  up  your  gage,  and  you  must 
abide  his  challenge." 

Warv/ick  sate  long  in  moody  silence  ;  he  well  knew 
that  in  this  case  there  could  have  been  no  collusion, 
and  he  shuddered  at  the  awful  omen  ;  still  he  could 
not  bring  his  mind  to  believe  that  Edward,  who,  way- 
ward and  reckless  as  he  was,  had  ever  regarded  him  as 
a  father,  should  turn  against  him,  nor  that  he,  the  prop 
and  the  stay  of  the  house  of  York,  should  lift  his  hand 
against  that  edifice  which  he.  beyond  every  other,  had 
labored  to  uphold,  and  in  whose  stability,  he,  too,  be 
yond  all  others  was  so  deeply  interested.  At  length 
he  spoke.  "Give  me  counsel,  good  Dr.  Bourchier ; 
for  myself  I  know  not  what  to  do." 

"  liight  willingly  v/ould  I,  Lord  Warwick  ;  but  here 
is  a  cloud  which  I  cannot  prnptrate.  and  future  events 
6* 


74  EARL  WARWICK^S  SEAL  RING. 

alone  can  throw  light  upon  the  omen  of  this  evening* 
Do  this — set  out  on  your  mission  as  speedily  as  you 
can,  for  the  results  of  that  will  show  what  your  after- 
course  must  be."  The  astrologer  paused,  for  again 
footsteps  were  heard  on  the  stair  :  the  door  opened,  and 
a  beautiful  boy,  about  sixteen  years  of  age,  bounded  in. 
"  My  young  Amias,  wherefore  art  ihou  here  ?"  said 
he,  gazing  at  him  with  much  fondness. 

The  boy  laughed.  "  Master  Philip  Malpas  sent  me 
hither,"  said  he  ;  "  good  grandfather,  are  ye  not  glad 
to  see  me  ?"  He  paused  and  drew  back,  for  he  per- 
ceived that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  whose 
eyes  were  intently  fixed  upon  him. 

"  Come  hither,  young  boy,"  said  Warwick;  "what 
hold  you  in  your  hand  ?" 

The  boy  "^advanced  timidly.  "  A  fan-,  broidered 
glove,  v/hich  a  young  man  flung  towards  me,  just  as  I 
entered  the  great  gate,"  said  he,  holding  it  out  to  War- 
wick, who  eagerly  snatched  it. 

•'  St.  Mary!  my  own  glove  !"  said  he. 

The  astrologer  looked  at  the  earl,  and  then  at  his 
grandson,  with  a  troubled  countenance,  while  War- 
wick rose  to  depart.  "  Methinks  this  omen  after  all 
is  not  so  gloomy,"  said  he  ;  "  my  gage  hath  been  re- 
turned,  not  exchanged,  and  by  a  fair  young  messen- 
ger," and  he  stroked  the  fair  boy  on  the  head.  "  Fare- 
well, Dr.  Bourchier,"  continued  he,  "  I  will  set  out  to- 
morrow, and  the  holy  saints  clear  up  this  strange  mys- 
tery." 

"  Heaven  grant  it.  Lord  Warwick  !"  said  the  as- 
trologer earnestly,  as  ho  departed.  "  St.  Mary  is  my 
witness,  how  little  I  ever  dreamt  such  an  omen  would 
come  to  pass." 

"  Is  that  Lord  Warwick,  the  King-maker  ?"  said  the 
boy,  turning  to  his  grandfather,  "  methought  I  saw 
him  last  night." 

"  Where  ?" 


EARL  WARWICK  S  SEAL   RING.  iO 

"  Oh,  only  that  I  dreamt  of  him,  and  methought  I 
had  his  white  bear  and  ragged  staff  worked  on  my 
breast.     I  little  thought  I  should  see  him  to-day." 

"  And  wherefore  was  it  that  ye  came  hither  ?" 

"  Old  master  Philip  INIalpas,  the  goldsmith,  bade 
me  come,  for  he  said  he  sought  an  hour's  talk  with 
you,  and  would  pray  you  send  w^ord  when  he  should 
come." 

"  It  is  well,"  said  the  astrologer  ;  "  I  should  like  an 
hour's  converse  with  him,  for  he  is  a  learned  man"— 
and  again  he  turned  to  his  desk  and  pored  over  his 
great  book,  as  though  unconscious  that  the  only  tie 
which  bound  him  to  the  world,  his  young  grandson, 
stood  before  him. 

Long  after  the  curfew  bell  had  rung  out,  and  the 
convent  had  retired  to  rest,  was  the  lamp  still  burning 
in  Dr.  Bourchier's  study,  while  he,  employed  in  medi- 
tating on  the  unlooked-for  events  of  the  evening,  and 
comparing  the  horoscopes  of  the  three  who  had  taken 
part  in  them,  was  earnestly  attempting  to  wrest  from 
their  mysterious  symbols  that  knowledge  which  Hea- 
ven has  forbidden  to  man.  "  It  must  be  so,"  said  he, 
as  he  closed  his  huge  book,  and  looked  out  from  the 
open  casement  at  the  clear  stars  that  sparkled  above 
him,  while  the  distant  notes  of  the  organ,  and  choral 
chant,  told  that  his  brethren,  aroused  from  their  first 
sleep,  were  joining  in  the  midnight  "  Lauds" — "  yes,  it 
must  be,"  said  he  ;  "  the  fates  of  Edward,  Warwick, 
and  my  young  grandson,  are  linked  in  strange  con- 
junction  together.  Surely  it  vras  no  vain  prophecy 
that  Baptista  Santa  Croce  pronounced,  when  he  said, 
"  The  fate  of  England's  crown  shall  be  in  that  child's 
hands." 

Time  swiftly  passed,  and  Warwick  returned  from 
his  mission,  and,  in  state  inferior  to  royalty  alone,  pro- 
cee^ded  in  his  barge  to  Westminster.  But  here  was  no 
sovereign  anxiously  awaiting  his  arrival,  and  he  was 
told  that  Edward  had  set  out  that  verv  morning  hunt. 


76  EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring. 

ing,  and  had  left  a  careless  message  that  he  had  gone 
toward  St.  Albans, 

"  And  to  St.  Albans  will  I  go,"  said  Warwick, 
sternly,  turning  to  his  retainers,  "  Saddle  me  my 
iron-grey  steed,  and  meet  me  at  the  Aldersgate," 

One  short  hour  saw  him  on  his  road,  and  onward 
he  and  his  company  journeyed  in  moody  silence,  until 
they  reached  the  neighborhood  of  Barnet,  when  they 
were  roused  by  the  merry  notes  of  a  bugle,  and  at  the 
same  moment  a  gallantly.arrayed  hunter,  mounted  on 
a  milk-white  palfrey,  and  followed  by  six  horsemen, 
passed  toward  a  narrow  lane  a  short  distance  before 
them. 

"  Saints,"  cried  Warwick,  turning  to  his  nearest  at- 
tendant, "  yonder 's  Lady  Blanche — and  by  my  hali- 
dome.  King  Edward  I" 

The  attendant  looked  earnestly.  "  It  is  the  King's 
grace,  methinks,"  said  he. 

"It  is,  assuredly,"  cried  Warwick,  spurring  onward, 
and  soon  he  approached  near  enough  to  recognise  in 
the  tightly-fitted  vest  of  green  saye,  the  jewelled  col- 
lar, the  broidered  scarf,  and  the  flat  crimson  cap, 
whose  rich  heron  plume  contrasted  so  well  with  the 
profusion  of  rich  golden  hair,  the  vain  and  graceful 
Edward  Piantagenet,  who  stopped,  turned  gaily  round, 
and  his  bright  laughing  eyes  met  the  stern  glance  of 
Warwick. 

The  color  mounted  to  his  brow,  as  he  drew  back  en- 
deavoring to  conceal  his  vexation.  "  My  lord  of  War- 
wick rides  fast  this  morning,"  said  he. 

"  The  messenger  needs,  when  he  for  whom  the  mes- 
sage is  intended  doth  so,"  was  the  reply.  "Methought 
we  should  have  met  in  London." 

"  We  awaited  your  coming  until  yesternight,  and 
then  we  set  forth  to  disport  ourselves  this  sweet  spring- 
tide weather,"  said  Edward,  carelessly;  "but  how 
have  ye  sped  ?" 


KARL  WARWICK  S  SEAL  RING.  77 

'•Well,  my  liege; — should  ye  choose  to  marry  the 
I^ady  Bona,  all  is  ready." 

"And  what  if  I  should  not  ?" 

"  Wherefore  thought  ye  not  of  this  before  ?" 

"  Soothly  I  did — but  the  council  would  give  their 
judgment  that  Edward  should  wed  none  but  a  damsel 
o^roijal  birth.     St.  -Mary  I  they  will  be  mistaken." 

Warwick  looked  earnestly  at  the  speaker.  "  What 
mean  you^  King  Edward  ?  Wherefore,  then,  was  I 
sent  on  this  embassy  ?" 

"  Nay,  question  me  not,  good  Warwick,  for  I  have 
far  to  ride  ere  evening,  and  my  lady-love  awaiteth  my 
coming." 

The  bridle-rein  dropped  from  Warwick's  hand,  and 
he  fixed  his  keen  eye  on  the  king.     "  Your  lady-love !" 

"  Ay,  my  lady-love,  whom  I  am  now  about  to  see," 
said  Edward  impatiently. 

"  King  Edward,  what  mean  you  ?" 

"  That  I  shall  follow  my  own  pastime,  and  act  as 
best  pleaseth  me,"  replied  Edward,  petulantly ;  and, 
turning  Lady  Blanche  toward  the  narrow  lane,  he  gal- 
lopped  swiftly  away. 

One  moment  Warwick  sate  motionless,  and  who  can 
tell  the  bitterness  of  the  thoughts  that  crowded  in  that 
one  short  moment  on  his  mind  !  "  I  will  learn  all," 
said  he.  "  Oh,  surely  that  omen  spake  truly.'"  He 
set  spurs  to  his  iron-grey  steed,  and,  soon  passing  the 
astonished  attendants,  came  up  with  the  monarch, 
whose  light-hearted  laugh  echoed  long.  *'  King  Ed- 
ward," said  he,  "  one  word,  and  one  only — do  you  wed 
the  Lady  Bona  ?" 

Edward  turned  angrily  round.  "  We  are  too  old  to 
be  questioned,"  said  he,  "  and  methinks  Lord  Warwick 
shows  scant  cour.tesy  in  thus  followmg  us  when  we 
wish  to  ride  onward." 

"  I  hav^e  little  wish  to  follow,"  said  Warwick,  bit- 
terly ;  "but  I  demand  an  answer  to  my  question — do 
vou  wed  the  Ladv  Bona  ?" 


78  EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring. 

''^Demand  an  answer!"  Soothly,  Lord  Warwick,  is 
Lady  Courtesy's  adopted  son,  to  speak  thus  to  his  liege 
lord  !" 

"  Who  made  thee  so,  proud  and  scornful  monarch  ? 
Who  lifted  thy  banner  from  the  dust,  when  thy  father's 
head  blackened  above  York  Gate  ?  Who  raised  up  the 
White  Rose,  and  trampled  down  the  Red  ?" 

"  Mine  own  good  sw^ord,  and  mine  own  good  cause." 

"  Thine  own  good  sword — what  were  it  to  War- 
wick's ?  and  thine  own  good  cause — St.  Mary  !  it  had 
fared  ill,  but  for  the  swords  of  my  followers." 

"  My  Lord  of  Warwick  and  Salisbury  bears  himself 
right  proudly  this  morning,"  said  Edward,  and  a  smile, 
almost  of  scorn,  curled  his  beautiful  lip.  "  Perchance 
he  may  think  to  transfer  his  aid  to  the  weaker  cause  ; 
and  soothly  pious  Henry  needeth  fierce  speakers  and 
fierce  fighters,  seeing  he  can  do  nought  of  himself,  far 
more  than  he  who  hath  seized  his  crown  and  can  de- 
fend  it." 

"  Edward  !  do  you  trifle  with  mine  allegiance  ?" 
cried  Warwick,  sternly.  "  Take  heed — the  bear  may 
be  baited  mitil  he  turn  and  rend  his  foeman.'' 

"  The  bear  will  always  be  foremost,"  said  Edward, 
bitterly  ;  and  therefore,  what  wonder  if  he  should,  af- 
ter  all,  side  with  the  timid  antelope  of  Lancaster,  when 
the  white  falcon  of  York  breaks  the  creance  by  which 
he  hath  too  long  been  held.  Well,  be  it  so,"  continued 
he,  his  reckless  impetuosity  of  temper  surmounting 
every  better  feeling;  "  Edward  can  crush  the  Red 
Rose,  should  it  lift  its  head  again,  as  easily  as  scatter 
these  flowers  with  his  riding  wand." 

He  struck,  as  he  spoke,  a  beautiful  bough  of  open- 
ing  wild  roses,  which  hung  halfway  across  the  narrow 
road  ;  but  not  one  leaf  fell,  and  they  bounded  up  again, 
and  waved  their  blushing  blossoms  in  defiance.  War- 
wick fixed  his  eyes  eagerly,  as  Edward  again  angrily 
struck  at  the  bough — again  it  bent,  again  not  a  leaf 


EARL  WARWICK'iS  SEAL  RING.  79 

fell,  bat  in  llie  rebound  it  struck  the  white  palfrey  on 
the  face,  who  reared  and  plunged  violently. 

"  What  say  ye  to  the  Red  Rose,  now  ?"  cried  War- 
wick. "  Oh  I  there  is  truth  in  omens  of  Ul!"  and  his 
thoughts  turned  to  that  evening  when  Edward  had  so 
unconsciously  taken  up  the  glove. 

Edward  turned  coolly  round,  and  marked  with  an- 
ger the  blank  and  horror-struck  looks  of  his  attend- 
ants. '« It  is  your  presence,  my  lord,  that  brings  evil 
omens,"  said  he,  "  and  therefore  your  question  I  will 
answer,  because  it  will  relieve  us  from  your  unwished, 
for  company.  Marry  the  lady  Bona  /  will  not ;  and 
ask  ye  the  reason,  /  am  iced." 

"  To  whom  ?  Edward  of  York — v/ed  !  to  whom  ?" 

"It  is  truly  fitting  that  the  King  of  England  should 
reply  to  all  that  Lord  Warwick  asks,"  said  Edward, 
keeping  down  his  anger  to  add  bitterness  to  his  sarcasm, 
"  and  truly  fitting,  too,  that  Lord  Warwick  should 
know  my  lady-love's  name,  that,  as  Lord  High  Cham- 
berlain  at  her  coronation,  he  may  be  ready  to  do  her 
his  accustomed  suit  and  service.  The  Lady  Elizabeth 
Wydville  is  my  bride,  who,  albeit  the  widow  of  one 
who  was  only  a  Lancastrian  knight,  is  yet  daughter 
to  an  earl,  though  he  beareth  not  the  quarterings  of 
the  Beauchamps  and  the  Nevilles."  Edward  lifted  his 
cap,  with  a  mock  expression  of  humility,  and  bowed 
with  a  smile  of  scorn,  "  And  now,  hath  my  Lord  of 
Warwick  any  more  to  ask  ?" 

Warwick  turned  a  gloomy  look  on  him,  and  with  vi- 
olent effort  replied,  "Thou  hast  baited  the  bear — 
'ware  his  vengeance." 

Edward  again  bowed  with  mock  humility,  and,  set- 
ting spurs  to  Lady  Blanche,  swiftly  rode  on.  The 
trample  of  the  horses  aroused  Warwick  from  his  bitter 
dream.  "  Edward,"  cried  he,  "stay  !  wherefore  should 
I  keep  thy  father's  ring,  when  the  son  thus  scorns  my 
friendship  ?  Take  it,  and  my  defiance  I"  He  snatched 
a  ring  from  his  forefinger,  and  flung  it  far  on  the  roa'^  • 


80  EARL  Warwick's  seal  RI^'G. 

then  setting  spurs  to  his  iron-grey,  he  swiftly  rejoined 
his  wandering  company. 

Meanwhile  Edward  rode  on  in  angry  silence.  He 
felt  that  he  was  already  about  to  reap  the  fruit  of  his 
ill-advised  marriage,  in  the  hostility,  perhaps  the  defec- 
tion,  of  the  most  powerful  and  most  attached  of  all  his 
nobles,  and  it  was  with  no  lover-like  haste  that  he  pur- 
.sued  his  journey,  until  the  towers  of  Grafton  rose  be- 
fore him.  There,  even  when  the  politic  Duchess  Ja- 
queline  came  forward  with  flask  of  wine  a,nd  spice- 
plate,  and  the  fair  Elizabeth  herself  bounded  lightly  to 
meet  him,  a  cloud  overspread  his  brow.  He  set  down 
the  cup  of  untasted  wine ;  he  gazed  coldly  on  the  deli- 
cate features  of  his  three  weeks'  bride,  and  too  well 
did  her  subtle  mother  perceive,  though  as  yet  she  knew 
not  the  cause,  that  no  chain,  however  fine,  could  long 
bind  captive  the  white  falcon  of  York. 

"  Our  Lady  sain  ye,  Lord  Warwick,"  cried  Dr. 
Bourchier,  as,  pale  and  agitated,  he  entered  the  study  ; 
"what  hath  come  to  pass?  I  sent  a  message  to  War- 
wick House,  praying  ye  not  to  see  the  King  to-day,  but 
'twas  said  ye  had  not  returned." 

"  And  wherefore  not  ?" 

"  Because  there  is  jeopardy — danger  of  loss  of  favor, 
danger  even  to  your  house." 

"Danger  of  loss  of  favor  have  I  already  incurred — 
ves,  Edward  and  I  have  met,  and  parted /oeme/i .'" 

"St.  Mary!" 

"  Aye.  and  he  is  wed,  wed  to  the  upstart  River's 
daughter  ^  and  he  taunted  me  with  my  noble  ancestry, 
with  the  bearings  of  the  Beauchamps  and  the  Nevilles — 
the  bear  hath  been  shrewdly  baited,  but  the  time  will 
come — will  it  not  ? — when  he  shall  be  avenged." 

The  astrologer  gazed  on  Warwick  in  silence,  struck 
dumb  with  astonishment  at  the  accurate  fulfilment  of 
his  own  predictions  ;  at  length  he  found  words.  "  And 
what  eaid  ye  to  him  ?" 


EAEL  WARWICK  S  SEAL  RING.  81 

"  Defied  him,  and  flung  back  the  ring  that  his  fa- 
ther exchanged  with  me." 

"  The  saints  forefend  !  and  yet  surely  that  very  ring 
is  on  your  finger." 

Warwick  looked  hurriedly  on  the  ring  which  re- 
mained  on  his  right  hand.  "  It  is,"  said  he.  "  St. 
George  and  St.  Michael !  't  is  mine  own  seal  ring  that 
I  have  cast  away." 

"Heed  it  not,  Lord  Warwick ;  Philip  Malpas  will 
soon  make  ye  a  better." 

"  He  will  not,  he  cannot ;  wo  worth  the  day  !  would 
it  had  been  this  ring  I" 

"  Say  not  so ;  on  that  ring  depends  much,  much 
that  time  alone  will  show." 

"  But  on  the  other  depends  more  ;  it  was  made  by 
a  learned  man  who  will  never  make  another,  finished 
at  a  fortunate  point  of  time,  endowed  with  great  and 
wondrous  virtues.  St.  Mary  !  five  hundred  marks 
would  I  willingly  give  to  him  who  could  restore  it." 

"  Perchance  it  may  be  found." 

"  No,  no,  my  evil  destiny  prevails ;  but  truly  who- 
ever brought  me  that  ring  might  gain  even  whatever 
he  asked  for." 

Both  sat  in  silence — Warwick  absorbed  in  unavail- 
ing  grief  for  the  loss  of  his  so  highly  prized  seal  ring, 
and  Dr.  Bourchier  in  anxious  conjectures  as  to  what 
the  peculiar  virtues  of  that  cherished  ring  could  be, 
for  Warwick  had  never  before  even  spoke  of  it.  At 
length  Warwick  rose.  "  Dr.  Bourchier,  I  thank  you 
for  your  skill,"  said  he  ;  "ye  have  foretold  most  truly 
things  which  I  little  deemed  would  come  to  pass — 
show  me  how  I  may  avert  their  evil  consequences. 
Be  a  friend  to  me,  as  I  have  ever  shown  myself  to  you, 
and  ask  what  guerdon  ye  please." 

"  For  myself  I  have  nought  to  ask  ;  but,  Lord  War- 
wick, my  young  grandson  would  I  commend  to  your 
care,"  said  the  well  pleased  astrologer, 
7 


82  EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring. 

"  I  will  lake  charge  of  him — bid  him  be  with  me  to- 
morrow, for  I  shall  set  forth  for  Middleham  Castle; 
farewell." 

"  The  blessed  saints  be  praised  !"  ejaculated  the  ca- 
non of  St.  Martin's,  as  the  proud  Earl  of  Warwick  de- 
parted: '•  the  first  step  for  my  young  Amias  is  gained 
— once  under  the  protection  of  the  white  bear,  little 
need  I  fear  for  him,  and  who  may  tell  what  his  after- 
course  may  be  1  O,  sweet  St.  Mary,  grant  him  but  to 
uplift  the  Red  Rose  banner,  and  my  last  wish  will  be 
fulfilled!" 

Warwick  departed  to  Middleham  Castle ;  but,  ere 
long,  message  after  message  was  sent  by  the  now  re- 
pentant Edward,  suing  for  reconciliation,  wuth  offers 
of  manors  and  wardships,  and  of  dignities  to  be  be- 
stowed upon  his  relatives  (for  on  Warwick  scarcely 
could  another  high  office  be  heaped),  until,  at  length, 
urged  by  his  brothers  and  softened  by  so  many  conces- 
sions., he  acceded  to  the  hollow  peace.  Lands  and 
honors  were  lavished  on  his  brother,  Lord  Montague  ; 
the  mitre  of  York  itself  was  placed  on  the  youthful 
brow  of  his  youngest  brother,  George  Neville,  the 
chancellor — and,  in  bitter  payment  for  all  this,  at  the 
feast  of  Michaelmas,  at  the  abby  of  Reading,  Warwick 
himself  led  in  the  luckless  Elizabeth  W^ydville,  to  re- 
ceive  the  homage  of  the  nobles.  "  Wait,  and  be  wary, 
Warwick,"  said  the  canon  of  St.  Martin's;  "  the  time 
will  come  at  length,  but  till  then  must  the  bear  be 
chained." 


Six  anxious,  feverish,  unsettled  years  passed  away, 
and  often  was  the  hollow  peace  between  Edward  and 
Warwick  broken,  and  as  often  most  unexpectedly 
made  up.  Hopes  of  the  re-blossoming  of  the  Red  Rose 
had  almost  fleeted  from  the  minds  of  even  the  warmest 
Lancastrians,  while  the  Yorkists,  irritated  at  the  pro- 


EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring.  83 

fligacy  and  tyranny  of  their  once  popular  monarch, 
began  to  murmur  bitterly,  if  not  loudly,  and  to  accuse 
that  reckless  system  of  favoritism  which  had  raised 
even  the  most  distant  relatives  of  Elizabeth  to  an 
equality  with  the  ancient  nobility  of  the  land.  Still 
little  would  the  spectator,  as  he  gazed  at  the  merry 
faces  of  the  holyday  clad  citizens  who  crowded  the 
then  wide  churchyard  of  St.  Paul's  and  Ludgate,  be- 
lieve that  aught  of  discontent  could  find  place  among 
them  ;  but  the  day  v\-as  bright  and  summer-like,  and  a 
splendid  procession,  bound  to  their  own  catl^edral,  and 
to  do  honor  to  their  own  tutelar  saint,  was  about  to 
pass  by,  for  it  was  the  feast  of  St.  Edward  the  Con- 
fessor ;  and  King  Edward  and  his  attendant  nobles 
were  to  offer  a  new-  cloth  of  gold  pall  at  the  shrine  of 
the  canonized  Erkenwald, 

"  Stand  up  here,  good  Margery,"  said  an  old  woman 
to  her  companion,  who,  equally  old,  and  leaning  on  a 
cross-handled  stick,  made  her  way  with  difficulty 
through  the  crowd — "  stand  up  just  here  ;  good  Mas. 
ter  Malpas  is  not  a  churl,  to  drive  away  an  old  woman 
from  his  door  ;  and  here  we  can  see  all  down  Ludgate, 
and  right  to  the  great  door  of  St.  Paul's." 

"  Ay,  so  we  can,"  replied  the  other,  "but,  yet,  me- 
thinks,  we  have  seen  better  sights  years  agone  ;  mind 
ye  not,  in  fifiy-eight,  when  good  King  Henry,  and 
York,  and  all  the  lords,  went  to  make  up  their  peace?" 

"Right  well,  but  saints,  here  are  so  many  quarrels 
and  reconcilements,  one  can  scantly  remember  them 
all." 

"  And  there  will  be  more,  with  our  rightful  king 
kept  in  prison,  and  his  son  flying  none  knoweth 
where." 

"  Peace,  good  Margery,  such  things  may  not  be 
said  ;  only  yesternight  Ralph  Aston,  for  telling  some 
of  his  neighbors  that  things  would  never  go  well  till 
my  Lord  Warwick  was  foremost,  was  sent  for  by  the 
aldermen  " 


84  EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring. 

"  And  truly,  methinks,  vrc  all  may  say  so,"  said  a 
bold  looking  man,  who  stood  beside,  in  a  leather  doub. 
let  and  flat  worsted  cap,  the  common  dress  of  the  art- 
izans.  "Who  keepeth  better  house  than  Lord  War- 
wick  ?  six  fat  oxen  cooked  every  morning  for  break- 
fast.  I  promise  ye  I  had  ofttimes  last  winter  lacked  a 
breakfast,  but  for  the  buttery-hatch  at  Warwick 
Hou=e." 

"  And  so  had  I,"  interposed  another,  whose  thread, 
bare  jerkin,  stained  with  rust,  and  hose  half  murray 
and  half  blue,  the  livery  colors  of  York,  showed  him 
to  be  a  disbanded  man-at-arms.  "Ay,  I  was  sent 
home  from  Calais  half  dead  last  year,  and  might  have 
died  for  all  the  lord  of  Calais  would  care,  but,  thanks 
to  the  sanctuary  of  St.  Martin,  where  I  found  a  home, 
(though  't  was  among  beggarly  company),  and  my 
noble  Lord  Warwick's  beef  and  mutton,  I  am  e'en 
ready  to  fight  again,  though  it  needs  not  to  say  for 
whom." 

A  significant  glance  was  exchanged  between  the 
four,  and  Margery  in  a  lower  tone  said,  "  And  what 
did  they  say  at  Calais  about  that  noble  earl  and  the 
French  king  ?" 

"  Say,  good  wife  ?  that  my  Lord  Warwick  might 
even  have  his  will  of  him.  Now  that  king  is  old,  and 
wise,  and  learned  in  the  stars,  right  different  I  '11  war- 
rant  ye  to  him  yonder,  and  he  hath  a  grizzled  beard, 
and  weareth  a  doublet  not  worth  a  groat,  but,  he  's 
very  wise,  and,  't  is  thought  by  many  that,  as  he  read- 
eth  the  stars,  he  can  see  somewhat  that  w«  cannot, 
but,  that  will  be." 

"  Saints  grant  it !  Ay,  methought  I  would  come 
out  once  again,"  said  Margery,  "  to  see  my  Lord  War- 
v.uck,  and  perchance  I  m.ight  see  my  own  dear  foster- 
child,  too." 

"  I  doubt  an  ye  will  see  Lord  Warwick  to-day," 
said  the  man-at-arms,  "  for  he  was  not  at  Warwick 
House  this  morning." 


EARL  Warwick's  seal  rlng.  85 

"St.  Mary  I  is  there  a  new  quarrel?"  ejaculated 
the  three. 

"  Have  ye  not  heard,"  said  a  man  who  had  just  come 
up,  "  that  the  king  hath  had  nev.'s  that  my  lord  of 
Warwick  and  his  son-in-law  Clarence  have  been  levy- 
ing men  in  their  own  name  in  Lincolnshire,  instead  of 
fighting  the  rebels  ?" 

"  Rebels !  marry,  so  say  all  your  great  ones  when 
poor  souls  half  starving  take  the  law  into  their  own 
hands,"  cried  the  man  in  the  leathern  doublet. 

"  Ye  say  true,  good  master,"  replied  the  man-at. 
arms.  "  What  was  Robin  of  Redesdale's  rising,  and 
this  of  the  Lincolnshire  men,  but  because  they  lacked 
bread  ? — here's  nought  of  White  Rose  or  Red  in  this 
matter," 

"  But,  there  may  be  somewhat  of  the  white  bear  in 
the  matter,"  replied  the  last  comer,  with  a  significant 
nod. 

"  Ay,  then  vv^ill  my  dreaiii  be  made  out,"  said  Mar  = 
gery,  shaking  her  head. 

"What  dream  was  it,  good  mistress  ?"  cried  each 
and  all  eagerly. 

"  Why,  St.  Mary  be  gracious  to  us  I  but  I  saw  my 
Lord  of  Warwick,  and  he  had  his  long  furred  mantle» 
all  glittering  vvith  his  gold-cross  crosslets,  and  me- 
thought  he  started  up,  and  my  sweet  foster-child  came 
to  him  with  a  Red  Rose  in  his  hand." 

"  Ay,  and  he  took  it,  I  '11  warrant,"  cried  the  man- 
at.arms. 

"  Yes,  and  he  threw  off  his  mantle,  when,  behold 
you,  enamelled  just  on  the  breast-plate  of  his  tilting 
suit  of  brass  inland  armor  was  another  Red  Rose,  and 
then  was  there  shouting  and  noise  of  great  guns — so 
I  awoke." 

"  What  say  ye  to  this  omen  ?"  whispered  an  eccle- 
siastic, who  in  company  with  a  richly-dreesed  citizen 
had  drawn  near. 
7* 


86  EARL  WARWICK  S  SEAL  RING. 

♦■  1  heed  not  such,"  Y>-as  the  reply.  "  King  Aloazo 
decrrieth  nought  of  them,  as  ye  may  see  in  his  book, 
neither  doth  Raymond  Lully." 

*«  I  do,  for  I  have  often  found  them  true." 

"  Alas  1  Dr.  Bourchier,  your  mind  is  set  upon  the 
Red  Rose,  and  so  each  thing  that  makes  for  your 
cause  is  a  certain  omen.  O  sweet  St.  Mary,  would 
that  wars  m.ight  cease  1" 

Master  Philip  Malpas,  for  it  was  he,  now  knocked 
at  his  door,  and,  in  the  kindly  spirit  of  the  ancient 
citizen,  bidding  the  groupe  keep  their  places,  and  send- 
ing  out  a  tankard  of  ale,  followed  his  guest  up  stairs 
to  the  best  room,  which  from  its  two  bay-windows  dis. 
played  two  marvellously  rich  "  counterpoints"  of  blue 
and  murray  satin,  worked  with  huge  knots  of  flowers, 
and  fastened  to  the  window-sills  by  stout  pins,  bear- 
ing, in  default  of  the  natural  rose,  goodly  rosettes  of 
white  satin. 

And  now  onward  came  the  long  procession,  canons, 
prebendaries,  sub-dean,  and  dean  of  St.  Paul's,  all  in 
snowy  vestments  and  rich  copes,  chanting  the  psalms 
of  the  day  ;  then  the  city  dignitaries — aldermen,  whose 
long  scarlet  robes  half  enveloped  their  richly- trapped 
palfreys,  the  castellan  of  the  city  in  knightly  armor, 
bearing  the  gules  banner  of  its  guardian,  St.  Paul,  and 
Sir  Richard  Lee,  the  Lord  Mayor,  Vvith  collar  of  S  S., 
and  sable-lined  robe  of  crimson  velvet,  followed  by 
m.en-at-arms,  the  red  cross  of  London  worked  on  their 
shoulder,  and  surmounted  by  the  "White  Rose  en  so. 
liel.^^  Then,  amid  flourislies  of  trumpets  and  the  deaf, 
ening  thunder  of  kettle-drums,  advanced  the  officers 
of  state,  their  respective  arms  embroidered  on  the  side 
sleeves  of  their  rich  satin  or  velvet  mantles  ;  and,  con- 
spicuous am.ong  them  all,  the  silver  maces  of  his  civil 
office,  and  the  silver  crosses  of  his  archbishopric,  borne 
reverently  before  hun  by  the  younger  sons  of  the  first 
families  in  the  land,  clad  in  purple,  and  with  blazing 
mitre  on  his  milk-white  mule,  came  George  Neville, 


EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring.  87 

Chancellor  of  England,  primate  of  York,  youngest 
brother  of  Warwick,  whose  dark  fierce  eye,  as  it 
glanced  a  look  of  contempt  at  the  crowd  on  either  side 
that  waited  for  his  benediction,  seemed  to  tell,  in  lan- 
guage far  more  forcible  than  words,  how  he  cursed  the 
selfish  policy  of  his  father  and  brother,  which  had 
doomed  him  when  a  fiery  youth  of  nineteen  to  the 
cloister,  and  compelled  him  to  relinquish  lance  and 
war-steed  for  the  breviary  and  mule  of  the  churchman. 

And  now  came  Edward,  his  tight  vest  of  white 
cloth  of  gold  clasped  by  diamond  rosettes,  and  his  long 
royal  mantle  of  crimson  velvet  lined  with  blue  de- 
scending  almost  below  the  deep  bases  of  his  white  paL 
frey,  and  bearing  on  either  side  the  royal  arms  worked 
in  stiff  but  rich  broidery.  On  one  side  rode  the  Mar. 
quis  of  Dorset,  Lord  Rivers,  his  brotlier-in-law,  and 
on  the  right  his  brother  Richard  of  York,  gorgeously 
arrayed  in  cloth  of  gold  and  purple,  with  pale  and  thin 
features,  but  keen  and  searching  eye,  and  figure, 
whose  slight  deformity  was  scarcely  perceptible  (Tudor 
policy  not  havmg  as  yet  affixed  an  apocryphal  hurnp 
to  his  shoulders)  ;  and  when,  animated  by  the  gay 
scene,  Edward  looked  up  to  the  open  casements,  and 
saw  the  dames  and  damsels  of  his  "  good  city"  gazing 
with  unrepressed  admiration  at  the  monarch,  Avhose 
singular  personal  beauty  excited  the  wondering  notice 
of  Philip  de  Commines,  he  gracefully  lifted  his  cap, 
and  bent  almost  to  the  saddle-bow,  while  shouts  of 
"  A  York  !  a  York  !"  rent  the  air. 

"  Ay,  he  's  well  fitted  to  ride  in  state,"  said  the 
man-at-arms,  "  better  at  a  feast  than  at  a  fray  ;  but, 
for  a  knight  on  his  war-steed  —  and  soothly,  v^'hat 
can  be  a  fairer  sight  ?  —  commend  mc  to  Lord  AN'ar- 
wick." 

The  notice  of  the  spectators  was  now  directed  to  a 
slight  confusion,  occasioned  by  a  young  man,  who  had 
just  ridden  out  of  Ave  Mary  Lane,  attempting  to  make 
his  way  toward  the  cathedral,  and  who  had  been  rude- 


88  EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring. 

\y  repulsed  by  the  men-at-arms,  who  formed  a  liiie 
across  the  way.  He  seemed  to  have  come  from  a  dis. 
tance,  as  he  was  wrapped  in  a  travelling  cloak,  and 
he  was  followed  by  four  horsemen,  whose  cognisance 
could  scarcely  be  seen  ;  still  the  trappings  of  his  steed, 
and  the  graceful  though  almost  haughty  bearing  of 
the  rider,  proved  that  he  belonged  to  the  household  of 
some  noble  family.  "  Make  way,  good  folk,  make 
way,"  said  he,  "or  I  must  e'en  stay  here,  forsooth, 
till  the  procession  comes  back." 

"  Somewhat  new  for  a  follower  of  Lord  Warwick's 
to  wait,"  said  a  young  man  in  a  splendid  mantle,  with 
the  arms  of  the  Rivers  family  worked  on  the  side 
sleeve. 

"  Not  so  new,  Sir  malapart,"  replied  the  stranger, 
fiercely,  "  as  for  your  master  to  ride  with  kings." 

"  St.  George !"  cried  the  man-at-arms,  bounding 
forward  ;  "  my  gallant  leader.  Sir  Amias  Bourchier  I 
A  Warwick  !  a  Warwick !  toss  up  your  caps,  my 
masters — ay,  the  white  bear  will  soon  put  the  blue 
lion  to  flight,  and  a  score  besides,  I  trow." 

The  young  kniglit  turned  laughingly  round.  "  What, 
Jenkin,  art  there  ?"  He  then  caught  the  eye  of  old 
Margery,  which  was  earnestly  fixed  upon  him,  and  he 
immediately  turned  toward  her.  "What,  Margery, 
my  good  nurse,  art  thou  here,  too  ?" 

"  Ay,  said  I  not  that  thou  wouldst  be  a  great  man  ?" 
cried  she.  "  Heaven  prosper  thee,  and  the  Red  Rose, 
too  I     Ah  I  my  dream  will  come  true." 

"  I  would  counsel  ye,  fair  sir,  to  ride  onward,"  said 
one  of  the  officers  of  the  city  watch  ;  "  these  borel  men 
may  make  debate,  and  our  city  may  perchance  suffer 
harm." 

"  There  will  be  scant  danger  of  that,"  said  the 
young  knight  proudly,  "  if  the  upstart  nobles  teach 
but  their  servants  courtesy." 

"When  the  Nevilles  cease  to  teach   rebellion,  then 


EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring.  89 

will  be  time  for  courtesy,"  said  the  young  man  v.itli 
the  Rivers'  cognisance. 

'•  Repeat  those  words  at  your  peril  1"  cried  the 
young  knight,  throwing  off  his  cloak,  and  half  un- 
sheathing  his  sword. 

"  When  the  Nevilles  cease  to  teach  and  to  practise 
rebellion,"  said  the  other,  putting  himself  in  posture 
of  defence. 

"  A  foul  slander,  which  I  fling  back  in  thy  teeth," 
cried  the  young  knight.  "  Make  way,  good  people, 
and  let  me  prove  to  the  popinjay  what  it  is  to  arouse 
the  b.ar." 

The  populace,  with  shouts  of  "  A  Warwick  !  a  War- 
wick!"  made  room  for  the  combatants.  "Sweet  St. 
Mary  !"  cried  Master  Philip  Malpas,  "here's  strife  in 
the  very  streets  with  Lord  Rivers'  and  Lord  War- 
wick's followers  ;  what  may  it  portend  ?" 

The  canon  of  St.  Martin's  eagerly  advanced  to  the 
window,  unconscious  who  stood  below.  "  Warwick 
prevails^"  cried  he,  "  and  see,  the  young  knight  aims 
a  blow  at  his  foeman's  cap ;  the  White  Rose  hath 
fallen,  and  is  even  now  trampled  beneath  his  horse's 
feet.     Heaven  fulfil  the  omen  !" 

The  arrival  of  a  party  of  the  king's  men-at-arms 
put  an  end  to  the  contest.  "  The  white  bear  hath 
chased  away  the  blue  lion,"  cried  the  bystanders. 

"And  hath  struck  down  the  White  Rose  of  York," 
said  Jenkin,  pointing  to  the  trampled  rosette  ;  "  what 
say  ye  to  that,  my  masters  ?"  Many  a  significant  look 
was  exchanged,  and  many  an  ejaculation  uttered,  for 
an  omen  like  that  was  believed  by  most  to  shadow 
forth  a  change  of  dynasty. 

Meanwhile,  the  young  knight,  sending  his  horse  and 
his  attendants  back  to  Warwick  House,  entered  ihat 
of  Master  Philip  Malpas,  right  glad  to  withdraw  from 
notice,  and  half  fearing  the  result  of  the  omen  of  the 
White  Rose. 

"  Ay,  all  will  come  to  pass  in  Heaven's  good  time," 


90  EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring. 

cried  Dr.  Bourchier,  overjoyed  that  liis  darling  grand- 
son should  have  been  victor  ;  '•  and  wherefore  came 
ye  up  ?" 

"  With  a  letter  to  the  Arclibishop  of  York,  which 
I  was  to  deliver  into  his  hands  only,"  said  Amias. 
"  St.  George,  I  promised  to  deliver  it  before  high  mass, 
and  had  done  so,  but  for  this  debate  and  strife." 

"And  there  will  be  yet  more  debate  and  strife,  until 
the  Red  Rose  be  lifted  up,"  said  Dr.  Bouchier. 

"  'T  is  passing  strange,"  said  Master  Philip  Malpas, 
musingly,  "  that,  from  that  very  time  my  lord  of  War. 
wick  cast  away  his  seal-ring,  he  hath  never  prospered 
as  heretofore  ;  methinks  it  must  have  been  a  talisman 
of  hidden  virtues,  and  I  the  more  believe  so,  seeing 
that  he  never  spoke  of  it.  even  to  you,  until  it  was 
lost ;  for  secrcsy  preserveth  the  charm." 

*'  St.  Mary,  grant  that  Uiis  ring  may  be  a  talisman 
of  mighty  power  I"  said  the  young  knight,  holding  out 
a  ring,  laughingly,  "  for  then  I  would  give  it  to  my 
lady-love." 

Master  Philip  Malpas  took  the  ring  ;  it  was  dim, 
and  seemed  covered  with  clay.  "  Where  found  ye  it  ?" 
said  he. 

"  Oh,  just  behind  Barnet,  this  morning,  in  a  half  dry 
ditch;  but  it  glittered,  and  methought  I  would  pick  it 
up." 

"  'Tis  of  goodly  workmanship,"  said  the  goldsmith, 
carefully  wiping  it,  and  examining  it  wnth  well-prac- 
tised  eye;  "but,  holy  St.  Dunstan  I  it  may  well  be 
goodly  workmanship,  for  here  is  Baptista  Santa  Croce's 
own  mark  upon  it." 

"Let  me  see  it,"  cried  Dr.  Bourchier,  earnestly; 
*'  't  is  a  seal-ring,  an  agate  seal  ring :  good  Master 
Malpas — what  is  the  graving  ? — it  must  be  !  and  yet, 
holy  saints  I  can  it  be  ?" 

"  Be  calm,  Dr.  Bourchier,  it  may  be  as  you  think, 
for  here  is  the  bear  and  ragged  staff,  and  the  bear  is 
unchained,  and  there  is  a  star  above,  and  a  sun  below." 


EARL  WARWICK  S  SEAL   Rl.NG.  91 

"  St.  Mary  1  St.  Mary  !  then  it  is  so,  and  Lord  War. 
wick's  own  seal-ring  is  returned  to  him  after  six  years  I 
I  myself  will  take  it  to  Lord  Warwick,  for  the  time  is 
come,  even  as  was  shown  when  yonder  White  Rose 
lay  trampled  under  yon  palfrey's  feet." 

"  The  bear  unchained,  and  the  sun  below,"  said 
Master  Philip  iMalpas;  "truly  that  foreshoweth  the 
'ascendency  of  W^arwick  over  York  ;  and  it  must  be  so, 
for,  never  did  Baptista  Santa  Croce  form  a  talisman, 
but  it  was  of  certain  power,  or  give  a  sign,  but  it  was 
sure  to  come  to  pass." 

"  And  all  his  sayings  will  come  to  pass,"  cried  the 
enthusiastic  Lancastrian,  gazing  earnestly  on  his 
grandson  ;  "  ay,  Amias,  the  Red  Rose  will,  indeed,  lift 
her  head  again,  and  it  is  for  you  and  Lord  Warwick 
to  unfurl  her  banner." 


A  gay  and  a  spirit-stirring  scene  did  the  inner  court- 
j'ard  of  Warwick  Castle  present,  on  the  morrow  of  St. 
Alphege,  for  Lord  Warwick  was  about  to  set  forth  to 
join  his  son-in-law  Clarence  with  his  own  retainers ; 
and,  although  the  rustic  crowd  that  had  pressed  in  to 
gaze  upon  the  right  royal  state  of  the  great  earl  were 
uncertain  whether  the  well  armed  company  were  about 
to  fight  against  the  peasantry  who  were  now  in  arms 
under  the  guidance  of  Sir  Robert  Welles  and  Sir 
Charles  Delalaunde,  or  were  intended  to  support  them, 
still,  when  they  watched  the  retainers  in  their  bright 
scarlet  coats,  v/ilh  the  proud  badge,  the  white  ragged 
staff  worked  on  the  breast  and  shoulder,  and  the  men- 
at-arms  in  glittering  plate-armor,  and  morions  that 
threw  back  the  sunbeams  like  a  polished  mirror,  and 
the  pages  and  esquires,  in  broidered  surcoats,  and 
knights  in  inlaid  suits  of  armor,  and  plumed  helmets, 
mounted  on  their  richly  caparisoned  war-steeds,  and 
Warwick  himself  conspicuous,    with   nodding   white 


92  EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring. 

plume  and  blazoned  mantle,  their  shouts  rent  the  air, 
and  there  was  neither  lip  nor  heart  that  echoed  not 
*' Success  to  Warwick!"  But,  unmoved  by  the, glad 
shouts,  and,  hastily  withdrawing  his  hand  from  the 
clasp  of  his  daughter,  the  Lady  Anne,  Warwick  turned 
hastily  away,  and  was  about  descending  the  steps, 
when  his  eye  rested  upon  an  old  man  in  the  garb  of  an 
ecclesiastic.  "Dr.  Bourchier,  wherefore  art  tkou  here?" 
said  he. 

"  To  bid  you  be  up  and  doing,  for  the  time  is  now 
come." 

"  Noiv  come,"  cried  Warwick,  bitterly,  "  when  Ed- 
ward seeketh  but  new  occasion  of  strife  ?  when,  with- 
out cause,  he  hath  charged  me  with  treason ;  hath 
come  down  to  Erpinghara,  and  given  battle  to  those  he 
is  pleased  to  call  rebels,  as  though  /  were  unworthy 
to  lift  his  banner  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  now  is  the  time." 

•«  And  for  what  ?" 

"Cast  av.-ay  the  White  Rose,  and  uplift  the  Red." 

The  reply  was  given  in  no  under-tone,  and  the  old 
man  looked  proudly  around,  as  though  he  brought  in- 
deed  a  message  from  Heaven  ;  and  the  retainers  of  the 
earl  gazed  with  awe-stricken  wonder  upon  him. 

"  Uplift  the  Red  Rose  ?"  said  Warwick  ;  "  how  can 
I,  pledged  as  I  am  to  the  White.  Often  have  I  and 
Edward  striven  together,  but  never  did  I  forfeit  faith 
to  the  Whiie  Rose." 

"  But,  if  Edward  has  forfeited  faith  with  you — if  the 
solemn  pledge  given  by  him  to  the  father  of  Sir  Robert 
Welles  halh  been  broken,  and  Sir  Charles  Delalaunde 
and  Sir  Robert  Welles  both  lie  headless  ?" 

"  St.  George  1  it  cannot  be." 

"  Ask  yonder  messengers,  who  have  ridden  fast  and 
far,  what  tidings  they  bring." 

The  weary  messengers  who  had  just  arrived  ad- 
vanced, and  told  how  the  two  leaders  of  the  misguided 
peasantry  had,  in  contempt  of  the  king's  solemn  pro- 


EARL  WARWICK'S  SEAL  RING.  93 

rnif?e,  been  beheaded  as  traitors,  and  liow  that  Edward 
]iad  even  now  despatched  Garter  Kinnr  at  Arms  to 
"Warwick,  to  summon  him  to  return  to  his  allegiance. 

"  The  time  is  come,"  cried  Warwick,  fiercely  tear- 
ing the  White  Rose  from  his  helm,  and  dashing  it  on 
the  ground  :  "summon  7ne,  Edward,  as  thou  listest, 
but,  the  hand  that  placed  the  crown  on  thy  brow  shall 
again  uncrown  thee." 

"  Take  thy  ring.  Lord  Warv.'ick,"  said  the  astrolo- 
ger, j)lacing  on  his  finger  the  long-lost  seal  ring  ;  "  six 
years  hath  it  been  trampled  in  the  dust,  even  like  the 
fortunes  of  Lancaster ;  now  is  it  recovered,  and  now 
is  the  time  to  unfurl  that  banner  ;  for  never,  so  say  the 
steadfast  stars,  shall  victory  desert  his  standard  who 
wearcth  this  ring." 

"  For  the  Red  Rose  aiiJ  Lancaster  !"  cried  War- 
wick, spell-bound  by  the  words  and  by  the  gift  of  that 
aged  enthusiast,  and  the  glad  cry  was  caught  up  by 
ail  around.  It  echoed  through  the  streets  of  War- 
wick, it  resounded  to  the  ancient  city  of  Coventry,  and 
town  after  town,  and  city  after  city,  heard  the  strange 
tidings  that  Earl  Warvv'ick  had  advanced  the  banner 
of  Lancaster  : — that  day  the  Red  Rose  revived  again. 


Summer  came,  and  had  well  nigh  passed  away,  ere 
the  Red  Rose  in  London  lifted  her  head  above  her 
snowy  rival.  In  the  northern  and  western  parts  of 
the  kingdom,  the  cause  of  Lancaster  was  triumphant; 
and,  roused  at  length  to  a  sense  of  his  danger,  Edward 
set  out  for  York,  to  give  battle  to  his  enemies,  ere 
that  Warwick,  in  company  with  young  Prince  Edvv-ard, 
aided  by  the  power' of  the  French  king,  should  return 
to  England,  and  raise  Henry  from  his  prison  in  the 
Tower  to  the  throne  of  his  forefathers. 

And,  sternly  musing  on  the  swifily-passing  events 
of  this  changeful  time,  in  his  splendid  chamber  in 
8 


94  EAKL  WARWICK  :i  iJEAL  Ki:<G. 

York  House  sate  George  Neville  ;  his  foot,  ia  iiis  cross- 
embroidered  slipper,  resting  on  a  gorgeous  foot-stool, 
his  head  leaning  against  the  richly  carved  back  of  his 
gilded  chair,  Avhile,  on  the  table  beside  him,  inlaid  so 
beautifally  with  ivory  and  gems,  stood  neither  brevi- 
ary nor  crucifix,  but  a  gold  standing  cup,  a  dish  of  the 
same  rich  material  with  the  choicest  fruit,  the  velvet 
bag  which  contained  the  great  seal,  and,  laid  open  at 
a  splendid  illumination  of  knights  at  a  tournament,  a 
copy  of  Froissart  of  dazzling  and  resplendent  beauty. 
One  attendant  only  waited  in  his  private  apartment, 
his  favorite  chaplain,  who  at  respectful  distance  stood 
with  bent  head  and  arms  folded  on  his  breast. 

"By  St.  Peter,  our  especial  patron,"  said  the  arch- 
bishop, "  our  brother  of  Vrarv/ick  writes  in  right  king- 
ly style."  "  And  ye  shall  cause  proclamation  to  be 
made,  asserting  King  Henry's  right,  and  ye  shall  re- 
pair to  the  Tower  and  bring  him  forth" — St.  Mary  ! 
and  all  saints,  a  mere  crowned  image  I — bring  him 
forth  I  '  unto  his  place  at  Westminster,  there  to  await 
our  coming  :  and  so  our  Lord  ever  have  ye  in  his  holy 
keeping.'  " 

"  And  Sathanas  ever  have  yon  in  his  1"  muttered 
he,  throwing  the  letter  on  the  floor.  "  Accursed  fate  I 
that  gave  unlo  thee  the  heirship  and  the  earldom,  and 
the  sword  of  the  knight,  and  crushed  my  budding 
hopes  in  the  cloister."  He  stopped  suddenly,  aware 
that  in  the  fierce  outburst  of  exacerbated  feelings  he 
had  said  too  much,  and,  turning  to  his  cliaplaiu,  bade 
him  inquire  if  Dr.  Bourchier  had  arrived. 

The  chaplain  quickly  returned,  leading  in  the  canon 
of  St.  Martin's,  who  bent  the  knee  at  the  footstool  of 
his  spiritual  superior,  and  reverently  kissed  the  jew- 
elled hand. 

'•  I  have  sent  for  ye,  Br.  Bourchier,"  said  the  arch, 
bishop,  motioning  to  his  chaplain  to  quit  the  room, 
"  for  converse  on  weighty  matters.  There  hath  been 
talk  of  a  seal-ring  belonging  to  my  brother  Warwick, 


EAKL  Warwick's  seal  ring.  95 

which,  it  is  said,  possesseth  great  and  marvellous  pro- 
perties." 

"  It  doth,"  was  the  eager  reply. 

'•  Now,  from  whence  ariseth  this  ?  hath  it  a  piece 
of  the  true  cross  ?  or,  as  hath  been  told  me,  hath  it 
been  made  of  the  verv  gold  which  was  foimd  in  the 
tomb  of  St.  Edmund  the  King?" 

"  No  ;  it  is  a  pure  and  faultless  agate,  graven  with 
signs  of  mighly  power,  and  doubtless  constructed  when 
Lord  Warwick's  star  was  in  the  ascendant,  and  fin- 
ished at  the  fortunate  point  of  time." 

"  But  this  ring  was  strangely  lost,  't  is  said,  for  six 
years,  and  yet,  did  not  my  brother  during  that  time 
marry  his  daughter  Isabel  to  the  king's  own  brother  ? 
Surely  this  was  high  fortune." 

"  Alas  I  so  it  may  not  prove  ;  even  now  is  Clarence 
offended  at  his  reconcilement  with  Margaret,  and,  if 
he  should,  as  't  is  said,  marry  the  Lady  Anne  to  Prince 
Edward,  woful  feud  may  arise  between  them." 

"  The  Lady  Anne  is  not  in  France  ;  she  is  at  Bark- 
ing Abbey,  with  her  aunt." 

"  Still,  her  horoscope  declares  that  sho  will  be 
queen  " 

"  And  can  you  put  faith  in  such  things  ?" 

"  Assuredly,  reverend  father,  hath  not  each  event 
of  my  lord  of  Warwick's  life  been  foreshown  by  his 
horoscope  ?" 

"  Then  what  saith  it  of  his  end  ?"  and  a  bitter  smile 
passed  over  George  Neville's  stern  features. 

"  That  is  wrapped  in  darkness — darkness  that  time 
alone  may  remove." 

"  But  his  star,  say  you,  is  in  the  ascendant  now  ; 
how  long  may  that  be  ?"  said  tiie  archbishop,  fixing  a 
searching  look  on  the  astrologer,  who  drew  back. 
"  Nay,  Dr.  Bourchier,  fear  not  to  answer,"  continued 
he,  in  a  milder  tone  :  "  that  there  is  some  truth  in 
these  prognostics  I  willingly  believe  ;  and  it  is  because 
I  fear  danger  to  mv  too  sanjruine  brother  that  I  have 


96  EARL  Warwick's  seal  king. 

sent. to  you,  that  ye  may  counsel  and  warn  him;  for 
much  sorrow  have  I  had  about  that  ring." 

The  guileless  astrologer,  who  had  read  the  book  of 
heaven,  but  neglected  the  more  important  study  of  the 
human  heart,  deceived  by  the  appearance  of  interest 
evinced  by  the  wily  George  Neville  in  the  fate  of  his 
hated  brother,  detailed  every  particular  of  the  myste- 
rious  loss  and  recovery  of  the  ring,  and  reiterated  his 
belief  that  on  its  possession  ths  good  fortune  of  War- 
v.'ick  depended. 

"  We  thank  you  right  heartily,  good  doctor,"  said 
he,  v^'hen  at  length  the  astrologer  kissed  his  hand  as 
about  to  vrithuraw.  "  Alas  !  our  valiant  brother  is 
surrounded  with  danger  ;  do  your  best  to  aid  him,  and 
thus  shall  ye  ever  secure  the  favor  of  the  primate  of 
York." 

"  He  will  do  well  and  prosper,"  cried  the  joyful  Lan- 
castrian ;  "he  hath  uplifted  the  Red  Rose,  and  in  its 
prosperity  will  he  share." 

"And  thus,  in  every  step  of  our  career,  art  thou 
doomed  to  outstrip  me  !"  said  George  Neville,  bitterly. 
"  Would  that  I  were  a  layman,  and  I  would  meet  thee 
on  the  field  ;  would  that  tfiis  hand" — and  he  glanced 
a  look  of  contempt  on  the  fine  lace  that  half  enveloped 
the  hand  more  fitted  so  grasp  the  lance  than  to  lift  the 
censer — "  would  that  this  hand  were  uplifted  against 
thee  in  battle-field ;  and  then  should  we  try,  even  un- 
til one  fell,  which  should  possess  the  wide  lands  of  the 
Nevilles  I  Thou  hast  doomed  me  to  the  cloister  ;  be- 
ware thy  doom — I  may  never  possess  thy  lands,  but 
one  possession  I  will  wrest  from  thee — that  potent 
ring." 

Absorbed  in  joyful  anticipations.  Dr.  Bourchier  re- 
turned  homeward,  nor,  until  he  felt  the  eager  grasp  of 
his  hand,  was  he  conscious  that  his  darling  grandson 
stood  before  him, 

"  Whence  come  you  ?"  said  he. 

"  From  Barking  Abbev." 


EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring.  97 

"  Wherefore  went  you  thither  ?" 

"To  see  my  lady;"  and  the  young  knight  looked 
down,  half  confused,  half  laughingly. 

"  And  ye  carried  away  this  as  your  guerdon,"  said 
the  grandfather  smilingly,  and  drawing  from  the  young 
kniiiht's  half  open  vest  a  beautiful  tress  of  amber  hair. 
"  What  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Anne." 

"  Saints  !"  ejaculated  the  overjoyed  grandfather,  as 
the  young  knight  departed,  "  the  Lady  Anne,  she  who 
shall  one  da}'-  wear  a  crown,  is  my  grandson's  own 
lady-love  I" 


Swiftly  and  joyfully  did  the  succeeding  months  pass 
on.  The  Red  Rose  throughout  the  land  was  triumph- 
ant ;  Warwick  had  been  appointed  protector  of  the 
kingdom  ;  Edward  of  York  was  an  exile,  and,  honored 
and  flattered  both  by  the  earl  and  his  brother,  his 
grandson  rising  each  day  in  favor,  the  canon  of  St. 
Martin's  thought  not  of  evil  to  come,  or,  even  if  he  did, 
deemed  himself  able,  through  his  knovv  ledge  of  the  fu- 
ture to  avert  it.  And  thus  when,  at  the  beginning  of 
Lent,  news  arrived  of  the  landing  of  Edward  in  York- 
shire, he  almost  welcomed  the  mtelligence,  for  it  seemed 
to  show  that  the  crisis  foretold  by  the  stars  was  at 
hand,  which  should  link  the  fates  of  Warwick  and  his 
grandson  inseparably  together. 

And,  earnestly  poring  over  the  horoscope  of  Edward, 
Dr.  Bourchier  sat  in  his  study,  on  the  evening  that 
brought  the  news  of  his  rapid  advance  toward  Coven- 
try, when  Warwick,  pale  and  agitated,  stood  before  him. 

"  My  long  tried  adviser,"  said  he,  "  I  am  ill  at  ease, 
sick  in  body,  but  more  sick  at  heart ;  and,  worn  and 
wearied  with  doubts  of  success  and  fears  of  treachery, 
I  turn  from  the  counsel  of  men  to  ask  counsel  of  the 
changeless  stars." 


93  EARL  Warwick's  seal  ring. 

"  Ye  do  well,  Lord  Warwick  :  but  wherefore  this 
anxiety  ?" 

"  Is  there  not  cause  ?  Edward  at  the  head  of  twenty 
thousand  men ;  Clarence,  my  perjured  son-in-law, 
casting  off  the  Red  Rose,  and  joining  him  ;  and  others, 
holy  saints,  of  my  own  blood,  who,  for  what  I  know, 
may  be  in  league  with  mine  enemies  I  while,  to  arouse 
my  worst  fears,  look  at  this."  He  carefully  took  from 
his  parse  the  seal-ring,  and  laid  it  before  the  astrologer. 

"  The  agate  is  loose,  and  hath  been  broken  right 
across,"  said  Dr.  Bourchier,  carefully  examining  it. 
"  St.  Mary  !  how  came  it  ?" 

"  Heaven  only  knows — but,  surely  from  thence  came 
this  omen." 

"  Not  so — this  agate  hath  doubtless  been  broken  by 
design  : — some  one,  an  enemy  in  your  own  household, 
in  league  with  York,  hath  sought  to  remove  the  stone, 
and  broken  it." 

"  St.  Mary  I  it  could  have  been  none  but  ^e,"  gasped 
Warwick. 

"  Now,  be  not  cast  down.  Lord  Warwick,"  contin- 
ued the  astrologer.  ".Philip  Malpas  v/ill  repair  this 
ring,  ere  ye  can  say  three  Paternosters,  and  ere  matins 
to-morrow  will  I  bring  it." 

"  I  must  away  to-night.  Oxford  hath  gone  for- 
v%'ard,  and  I  follow." 

"  Then  I  will  send  it  af  Ler  ye  right  swiftly." 

"  Ay,  but  take  heed  that  it  be  by  a  trusty  messen- 
ger— above  all,  beware  lest  it  fall  into  my  brother 
George  Neville's  hands." 

Dr.  Bourchier  looked  up  with  amazement.  "  I  have 
reasons  for  my  warning,  ask  me  not  for  them,"  con- 
tinued Warwick  hastily.  "  I  will  send  Amias  himself 
for  the  ring,  and  take  heed  that  ye  give  it  to  no  other. 
But,  now,  what  shall  be  done  ?  When  shall  I  give 
battle  ?" 

"  Edv/ard's  star  is  again  in  the  ascendant ;  give  not 
battle  vet." 


99 

"  Saints  !  and  he  is  approaching  London,  and  there- 
fore  hath  Lord  Oxford  set  forth." 

•'  Heed  it  not ;  the  bear  must  not  arouse  himself  un- 
til after  this  conjunction  of  the  planets  be  past." 

"  When  will  that  be  ?" 

"After  the  llth  of  April,  that  very  day  seven  years, 
when  Edward  in  this  room  took  np  your  pledge." 

"  I  mind  it  well ;  St.  Mary  !  would  that  that  day 
were  past,  for  I  have  sad  forebodings  I" 

"  Chase  them  away,  for  on  that  day  shall  it  be  seen 
whether  the  v.-hite  bear  will  not  for  aye  strike  down 
the  while  falcon  of  York." 

"  Or,  be  stricken  down  himself  1" 

"  Nay,  Lord  Warwick,  give  not  way  to  such 
thoughts ;  all  will  be  well,  and  with  that  ring  again 
on  your  finger,  and  tried  swords  and  firm  hearts  around 
you,  ye  shall  strike  down  the  pride  and  the  power  of 
York  for  aye.  What  bearing  hath  Lord  Oxford  ?  is  it 
not  a  star  with  rays  ?" 

"  It  is." 

"  Then  do  battle  under  his  cognisance,  and  the 
sun  of  Edward  shall  set  before  the  star  of  thine  as. 
cendant." 

"  1  will,  I  will,  for  I  dreamt  even  thrice,  that  in  bat- 
tle the  bear  was  stricken  down — farewell,  good  friend." 
Warwick  v.'armly  wrung  the  hand  of  the  canon  of  St. 
Martin's,  and  cast  an  eager  glance  upon  the  ring. — 
"  Would  that  it  v/ere  once  again  on  my  finger." 

"  It  will  be,  and  to  none  but  Amias  will  I  give  it : 
farewell,  brave  earl."  "With  a  feeling  he  could  not 
account  for.  Dr.  Bourchier  watched  the  retreating 
footsteps  of  the  gallant  noble,  as  slowly  he  crossed  the 
inner  court  of  St.  Martin's,  even  until  he  disappeared 
beneath  the  lofty  gateway.  "  Heaven  speed  thee, 
and  thy  cause  !"  At  that  moment  loud  and  clear  the 
death-bell  tolled  out.  "  Blessed  saints  !  blessed  saints  I" 
said  he,  '*  hnvr?  I  looked  my  last  upon  Warv^-ick  '''' 


100  EARL  WARWICK  S  SEAL  RING. 

That  night  the  gallant  AV^arwick  and  his  followers 
quitted  London  for  ever,  and  Edward,  unopposed,  ad- 
vanced southward.  Still  the  Red  Rose  held  her  sta- 
tion, and  George  Neville,  to  whose  custody  the  feeble 
king  and  the  impregnable  Tower  had  been  alike  com- 
mitted,  apparently  alarmed  at  the  near  approach  of 
Edward,  paraded  Henry  through  Westcheap,  bidding 
all  good  citizens  to  stand  firm  in  their  allegiance  to 
the  house  of  Lancaster.  Such  was  the  work  on  the 
morning  of  Maundy  Thursday  ;  the  afternoon  saw 
Edward  and  a  chosen  company  enter  through  the 
postern  gate  beside  Moorfields,  and  George  Neville, 
leading  forward  the  feeble  king,  place  him  and  the 
keys  of  the  Tower  in  the  hands  of  his  brother's  sworn 
enemy.  "  We  thank  you,  my  lord  of  York,"  said  Ed- 
ward, with  a  significant  smile,  "and  be  well  assured 
that,  when  our  victory  is  complete,  George  Neville 
shall  obtain  his  guerdon." 

Astounded  and  almost  heart-broken  at  this  un- 
looked-for treachery,  the  canon  of  St.  Martin's  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  his  cherished  volume,  and  looked  up 
to  the  bright  and  beautiful  orbs  that  sparkled  so  se- 
renely on  the  cares  and  turmoils  of  earth,  but  sought 
in  vain  for  aught  to  soothe  or  to  direct  him.  And  ru- 
mor  told  how  that  'Warvrick  had  arrived  even  at  Bar- 
net,  and  Edward  v.'ith  a  well  appointed  company  had 
quitted  London,  and  still  the  potent  seal-ring,  re- 
stored to  its  former  beauty,  lay  unclaimed  on  his  desk. 
"  To-morrow  must  the  battle  be  fought,"  cried  he, 
"  and  this  is  certain — Warwick  must  wear  that  ring, 
or  be  lost." 

At  length,  and  it  was  late  in  the  evening,  Amias 
entered  his  study.  "  Be  quick,  grandfather,"  said  he, 
"  give  me  the  ring." 

"  St.  George  and  St.  Michael  speed  ye  !"  cried  the 
joyful  astrologer,  giving  the  precious  talisman  into  his 
o-randson's  hand,   "  and  bear   this  messacre  to   War- 


EARL  ■WAFiWICK's  SEAL  RING.  101 

wick  ;  take  heed  that  ye  approach  not  the  spot  where 
that  ring  was  thrown  away." 

"  I  will,  good  grandfather,  farewell." 

Young  Amias  wrapped  his  cloak,  which  bore  the 
cognisance  of  York,  closely  round  hiui,  and,  secure  in 
that  disguise,  mounted  his  trusty  steed  and  rode  on- 
ward. Ere  long,  he  was  aware  of  following  footsteps  ; 
and,  before  he  had  reached  the  brow  of  Highgate  Hill, 
he  could  perceive  three  horsemen  in  fierce  pursuit. 
Surely  he  must  have  been  watched,  and  the  parting 
words  of  his  grandfather  overheard  ;'and,  eager  to  se- 
cure that  talisman  which  he  valued  far  more  than  life, 
he  pushed  forward  with  desperate  haste.  But  his  pur- 
suers were  well  mounted  as  he,  and  ere  long  they 
gained  upon  him.  He  was  now  within  a  mile  of  Bar- 
net,  and  with  indescribable  joy  he  beheld  at  a  short 
distance  a  well  armed  company,  with  banner  which 
seemed  to  show  in  the  clear  moonlight  "  a  star  with 
rays."  He  shouted  aloud,  and  the  company  made 
toward  him ;  but  ere  they  could  draw  nigh  he  was 
seized  by  his  pursuers.  "  Thy  master  shall  never 
possess  this,"  cried  he,  as  he  marked  upon  the  arm  of 
the  foremost  the  badge  of  the  treacherous  George 
Neville,  and,  snatching  the  box  which  contained  the 
precious  seal-ring  from  his  neck,  he  flung  it  to  the 
leader  of  the  company,  who  had  just  advanced  within 
bowshot.  "  Stay  not  to  rescue  me  ;  bear  it  instantly 
to  Lord  Warwick,  for  on  it  will  his  fate  depend."  He 
turned  away,  and  then,  calmly  yielding  to  his  hard 
fate,  returned  a  captive  to  London. 

Drearily  broke  the  dawn  of  the  eventful  14th  of 
April,  drearily  as  beseemed  the  day,  and  the  deed  ;  for 
it  was  Easter  Sunday  that  saw  Christian  men  mar- 
shalled  in  battle-array,  that  day  when,  in  each  flower- 
decked  church,  '■'■  HcKC  dies  quam  fecit  Dominus ;  ex- 
ultemus  ct  l&temur  in  ea,"  was  sung,  was  the  day  on 
v/hich  brother  was  to  meet  brother,  and  father  meet 
son,  in   fierce  and  deadly  conflict.     And  eagerly  did 


102 

Dr.  Bourchier  look  out  from  the  Aldersgate,  to  inquire 
news  of  the  fight,  and  question  with  breathless  anxiety- 
each  one  that  came  in.  Too  soon  did  the  fatal  news 
arrive  that  the  Red  Rose  had  been  struck  down,  that 
Lord  Oxford  had  fled,  and  that  Warwick  and  his  bro- 
ther, Lord  Montague,  were  both  slain. 

"  Accursed  be  the  astrologer  that  gave  Lord  War- 
wick counsel !"  said  an  aged  priest ;  "  his  followers 
mistook  Lord  Oxford's  badge,  the  star,  for  King  Ed- 
ward's sun,  and  fought  against  each  other  I" 

It  was  so  ;  and  then  first  did  the  bitter  pang  of  re- 
morse that  ever  he  had  followed  those  forbidden  studies 
pierce  Reynold  Bourchier's  heart.  There  needed  but 
one  more  drop  of  bitterness  to  be  added  to  his  cup  of 
sorrow  ;  and,  when  he  learned  that  his  grandson  was 
in  custody  of  the  chancellor,  on  charge  of  compassing, 
by  charms  and  spells,  the  death  of  the  King,  he  hailed 
the  messengers  sent  to  convey  himself  also  to  prison, 
for  in  death  seemed  his  only  prospect  of  rest. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  ?"  asked  the  chancellor,  as, 
unmoved  by  the  death  of  his  two  brothers  but  the  day 
before,  he  occupied  his  place  on  the  morrow  at  the 
council-table,  eyeing  sternly  the  younger  prisoner. 

Sir  AiTiias  Bourchier  eyed  the  speaker  with  as  stern 
a  look.  "  I  cast  away  the  ring  lest  you  should  possess 
it.  St.  Mary  !  methought  't  was  Lord  Oxford's  own 
esquire  to  whom  1  gave  it ;  but,  alas  !  that  fatal  star 
deceived  me,  as  it  deceived  us  all." 

"  Unhappy  old  man,"  said  a  mild-looking  ecclesi- 
astic, whose  scarlet  robe  showed  him  to  be  Cardinal 
Bourchier,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  turning  to  the 
other  prisoner,  "  how  often  liave  I  warned  you  against 
such  studies,  and  shown  the  exceeding  sinfulness  of 
attempting  to  wrest  from  Heaven  a  knowledge  of 
things  to  come  I  O  !  what  hath  astrology  done  for 
thee  ? — ^brought  ruin  on  thy  cherished  ca«se,  death  to 
him  who  too  firmly  believed  thee,  and  the  fate  of  a 
traitor  to  thine  onlv  grandson  I" 


EAKL  VVARWICK'ti  SEAL   KLNG.  10^ 

The  old  man  groaned  willi  agony.  "  Let  me  suf- 
fer," cried  he,  "  for  I  am  guilty' ;  but  my  grandson  hath 
done  nought,  save  in  being  bearer  of  that  wondrous 
seal  ring." 

"  And  in  seeking  to  marry  my  brother's  daughter," 
fiercely  interposed  the  chancellor,  "  because,  forsooth, 
't  was  said  that  in  his  hands  the  fate  of  England's 
crown  should  be." 

"  /  marry  the  Lady  Anne  1"  cried  Sir  Amias  ;  "  it 
is  to  Anne  Cresacre  that  I  aui  lietrothed  ;  and  as  to  a 
sillv  pro:jhccy  like  that,  St.  iMary  I  if  I  ever  regarded 
it.""' 

*«  'T  was  no  silly  prophecy  if,  as  ye  say,  that  seal- 
ring  of  my  Lord  Warwick's  possessed  such  wondrous 
powers,"  said  a  young  man,  who,  without  removing 
his  velvet  bonnet,  now  seated  himself  at  the  Jiead  of 
the  table :  "  and  so,  young  Lancastrian,  ye  threw  it 
away  rather  than  it  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  a 
Yorkist  ?     Dost  know  to  v,-hon-i  ye  threw  it  ?" 

"  Alas  !  to  Walter  Fitzhugh,  Lord  Oxford's  esquire, 
raethought. ' 

"  Ay,  ye  did  as  your  leader,  mistook  the  sun  for  the 
star,  and  gave  it  to  me — to  King  Edicard .'"  and  the 
exulting  monarch  laid  the  ring  on  the  table. 

"See  again  the  awful  vanity  of  these  studies,"  said 
Cardinal  Bonrchier  ;  "  the  While  Rose  was  to  gain  the 
victory,  and  therefore  each  deeply-laid  plan  to  prevent 
it  actually  served  to  aid  its  accomplishment.'' 

Dr.  Bourchier  clasped  his  hands  in  despair.  "  The 
fate  of  England's  crovrn  was  indeed  in  his  hands," 
said  he  ;  "  but  /  counselled  tiie  wearing  of  that  badge, 
/  chose  the  day  of  battle,  and  the  ruin  of  the  Red  Rose 
rests  upon  7ne  .'" 

•     "  Weil,  my  trusty  chancellor,"  cried  Edward,  turning 
to  George  Neville,  "  what  shall  v.'e  do  vrith  these  two?" 

"  Order  them  for  instant  execution,  my  liege,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  Grammcrcv,  that  would  be  an  ill  recompense  for 


104  EAKL  Warwick's  sj^al  ring. 

this  gift,"  said  Edward,  laughing.  "  No,  no,  methinks 
I  owe  this  young  man  some  better  return,  since  the 
fate  of  England's  crown  was  in  his  hands,  and  he  gave 
it  to  mc.  Yon  are  free,  Sir  Amias  Bourchier,  and  in 
possession  of  j^our  lands,  to  which  we  will  add  two  of 
my  Lord  Warwick's  manors,  and  if  ye  will  come  to 
court,  we  will  do  you  all  honor,  for  the  saints  alone 
know  whether,  among  all  my  followers,  I  could  find 
one  as  faithful  to  me  as  ye  have  been  to  your  master." 

"  Doth  King  Edward  misdoubt  his  servants'  fidel- 
ity  ?"  said  the  chancellor. 

"  I  shall  never  again  mistrust  yours,  my  lord,"  re- 
turned  Edward,  smiling  bitterly,  "  for  I  shall  never 
again  have  occasion." 

"  Surely  ye  will  not,"  said  the  astonished  chancellor, 
"  for  my  faith  hath  indeed  been  tried." 

"It  hath,  my  lord,  and  been  found  Vt'anting  : — on 
which  side  would  George  Neville  have  ranked  himself 
if  I  had  not  gained  the  victory  ?"  and  Edward,  who, 
while  he  "  loved  the  treason,  hated  the  traitor,"  laid 
some  papers  before  him.  "  We  will  dispense  with  your 
services,  ray  good  lord,"  continued  Edvrard,  "and  that 
ye  may  have  more  time  to  devote  to  spiritual  matters, 
we  will  give  ye  safe  lodging  at  the  castle  of  Hammes." 
To  this  stern  fortress  George  Neville  u^as  soon  con- 
veyed, where,  after  a  captivity  of  four  years,  broken, 
hearted,  and  we  hope  repentant,  he  died. 

Dr.  Bourcliicr  sadly  returned  to  his  cell  at  St.  Mar- 
tin's le  Grand,  but  never  again  to  consult  the  stars  : 
he  burnt  his  huge  volume,  he  broke  his  astrolabe,  and 
in  prayer  and  penitence  passed  the  short  remnant  of 
his  days.  Sir  Amias  Bourchier  lived  long  and  happily  ; 
he  fought  under  the  banner  of  Richmond  at  Bosworth 
field,  and  rose  high  in  favor  with  the  victorious  men. 
arch  ;  but  he  soon  retired  from  court,  to  employ  his 
old  age  in  instructing  liis  numerous  grandchildren  ; 
and  often  did  he  relate  to  them,  in  solemn  warning, 
the  story  of  Earl  Warwick's  Seal  Rixg. 


105 

BY  BIRS.  HEMANS. 

«'  My  cliild,  my  child,  thou  Icav'st  me! — 1  shall  hear 

The  gentle  voice  no  more  that  blessed  mine  ear 

With  its  first  utterance  : — I  shall  miss  the  sound 

Of  thy  light  footstep,  midst  the  flowers  around, 

iVnd  thy  soft-breathing  hymn  at  evening's  close, 

And  thy  '  Good-night,'  at  parting  for  repose. 

Under  the  vine-leaves  I  shall  sit  alone, 

And  the  low  breeze  v,'ill  liave  a  mournful  tone 

Among  their  tendrils,  while  I  think  of  thee. 

My  child ! — and  thou,  along  the  moonlight  sea. 

With  a  soft  sadness  haply  in  thy  glance, 

Shalt  v.atch  thine  own,  thy  pleasant  land  of  France 

Fading  to  air  !     Yet  blessings  with  thee  go — 

Love  guard  thee,  gentlest !  and  the  exile's  wo 

From  thy  young  heart  be  far  I — And  sorrow  not 

For  me,  sweet  daughter,  in  my  lonely  lot 

God  will  be  with  me  !     Now  farewell,  farewell, 

Thou  that  hast  been  what  words  may  never  tell 

Unto  thy  mother's  bosom,  since  the  days 

When  thou  wert  pillowed  there  ;  and  wont  to  raise 

In  sudden  laughter  thence  thy  loving  eye, 

That  still  sought  mine.    Those  moments  are  gone  by — 

Thou  too  nmst  go,  my  flower  !  yet  round  thee  dwell 

The  peace  of  God  !     One,  one  more  gaze — farewell  I" 

This  was  a  mother's  parting  Viuth  her  child — 
A  young,  meek  bride,  on  whom  fair  Fortune  smiled. 
And  wooed  her,  with  a  voice  of  Love,  away 
From  childhood's  home.     Yet  there,  with  fond   del^Ly. 
She  lingered  on  the  threshold  :  heard  the  note 
Of  her  caged  bird  through  trellised  rose-trees  float ; 
And  fell  upon  her  mother's  neck,  and  wept, 
9 


106  MADELINE. 

Whilst  old  reiueinberance,  that  long  had  slept, 
Streamed  o'er  her  soul ;  and  many  a  vanished  day, 
As  in  one  picture  traced,  before  her  lay. 

But  the  farewell  was  said;  and  on  the  deep, 
When  its  breast  heaved  in  sunset's  golden  sleep, 
With  a  stilled  heart,  young  Madeline,  ere  long, 
Poured  forth  her  own  low  solemn  vesper-song 
To  chiming  waves.     Through  stillness  hear  afar, 
And  duly  rising  with  the  first  pale  star, 
That  voice  was  on  the  waters ;  till  at  last 
The  sounding  ocean-solitudes  were  passed, 
And  the  bright  land  was  reached ;  the  youthful  world 
That  glows  along  the  West :  the  sails  were  furled 
In  its  clear  sunshine ;  and  the  gentle  bride 
Looked  on  the  home,  which  promised  hearts  untried 
A  bower  of  bliss  to  be.     Alas  !  we  trace 
The  map  of  our  own  paths  ;  and  long  ere  years 
With  their  dull  steps  the  brilliant  lines  efface. 
Comes  the  swift  storm,  and  blots  them  out  in  tears. 
That  home  was  darkened  soon  :  the  summer's  breeze 
Welcomed  with  death  the  wanderers  of  the  seas ! 
Death  unto  one !   and  anguish,  how  forlorn 
To  her  that,  widowed  in  her  marriage-morn, 
Sat  in  the  lonely  du^elling,  vvhence  with  him, 
Her  bosom's  first  beloved,  her  friend  and  guide, 
Joy  had  gone  forth,  and  left  the  green  earth  dim, 
As  from  the  sun  shut  out  on  every  side. 
By  the  close  veil  of  misery.     Oh  I  but  ill. 
When  with  rich  hopes  o'erfraught,  the  young  high  heart 
Bears  its  first  blow  !     It  knows  not  yet  the  part 
Which  life  will  teach — to  suffer  and  be  still  I 
And  with  submissive  love,  to  count  the  flowers 
Which  yet  are  spared  ;  and  through  the  future  hours- 
To  send  no  busy  dream  !     She  had  not  learned 
Of  sorrow  till  that  blight,  and  therefore  turned 
In  weariness  from  life.     Then  came  the  unrest, 


MADELINE.  107 

The  vajue  sad  yearnings  of  the  exile's  breast ; 
The  liaunting  sounds  of  voices  far  awa}', 
And  household  steps  ;  until  at  last  she  lay 
On  her  lone  couch  of  sickness — lost  in  dreams 
Of  the  gay  vineyards  and  blue  glancing  streams, 
Of  her  own  sunny  land — and  murmuring  oft 
Familiar  names  in  accents  wild,  yet  soft, 
To  strangers  round  that  bed,  who  knew  not  aught 
Of  the  deep  spells  wherewith  each  word  was  fraught. 
To  stangcrs  I — oh  !  could  strangers  raise  the  head. 
Gently  as  her's  was  raised  ? — did  strangers  shed 
The  kindly  tears  which  bathed  that  pale  young  brow, 
And  feverish  check,  with  half  unconscious  flow  ? — 
Something  was  there,  that  through  the  heavy  night 
Outwatches  patiently  the  taper's  light ; 
Something  that  bows  not  to  the  day's  distress. 
That  knows  not  change,  that  fears  not  weariness  ; 
Love,  true  and  perfect  lovel — Whence  came  that  pow'r, 
UpbeariuGT  through  the  storm  the  fragile  flower? 
Whence  ? — who  can  ask  ? — the  long  delirium  passed, 
And  from  her  eyes  the  spirit  looked  at  last 
Into  her  mother's  face  I — and,  weakening  knew 
The  brow's  calm  grace,  the  hair's  dear  silvery  hue — 

The  kind,  sweet  smile  of  old  I And  had  she  come. 

Thus  ill  life's  evening  from  her  distant  home, 
To  save  her  child  ?     Even  so.     Nor  yet  in  vain — 
In  that  young  heart  a  light  sprung  up  again  1 
And  lovely  still,  with  so  much  love  to  give. 
Seemed  this  fair  Avorld,  though  faded  ;  still  to  live 
Was  not  to  pine  forsaken  I     On  the  breast 
That  rocked  her  childhood,  falling  in  soft  rest — 
"  Sweet  mother  !  gentlest  mother  I — can  it  be  ?" 
The  lorn  one  cried — "And  do  I  gaze  on  thee  ? 
Take  home  thy  wanderer  from  this  fatal  shore — 
Peace  shall  be  our's,  amidst  our  vines  once  more  !" 


108 

BY  MISS  L.  E.  LANDON. 

Those  fond,  vague  dreams,  that  make  love's  happiness: 
Its  first — and  oh,  its  last ! 

She  has  left  the  lighted  hall, 

She  has  flung  down  cap  and  plume, 

Her  eye  wears  softer  light. 

And  her  cheek  a  tenderer  bloom  : 

And  her  hair  in  sunny  shovrers 
Falls  o'er  her  marble  brow. 
From  its  midnight  bonds  of  pearl, 
Free  as  her  thoughts  are  now. — 

She  has  left  the  yet  glad  dance, 
O'er  those  gentle  thoughts  to  brood, 
That  haunt  a  girl's  first  hour 
Of  love-touched  solitude. 

Music's  sweet  and  distant  sound   * 
Comes  floating  on  the  air. 
From  the  banquet-room  it  tells 
The  dancers  still  are  there  : 

But  she,  their  loveliest  one, 
Has  left  the  festal  scene. 
To  dream  on  what  may  be, 
To  muse  o'er  ^vhat  has  been  ; 

To  think  on  low,  soft  words, 
Her  ear  had  drunk  that  night. 
While  her  heart  beat  echo-like, 
And  her  cheek  burnt  ruby  bright. 


JULIET  AFTER  THE  MASQUERADE.  109 

How  beautiful  she  looks 
Beneath  that  moonlit  sky, 
With  her  lip  of  living  rose, 
Her  blue  and  drooping  eye  ! 

Spell-like,  the  festal  scene 
Rises  on  heart  and  brain  ; 
Not  a  word  and  not  a  look, 
But  she  lives  them  o'er  again. 

Well,  dream  thy  dream,  fair  girl ! 
Tho'  ne'er  did  morning  close, 
With  its  cold  and  waking  light, 
Dreams  fair  and  false  as  those  : 

They  are  like  the  mists  that  rise 
At  day-break  to  the  sky. 
There,  touched  by  all  bright  hues, 
On  its  breast  awhile  they  lie  ; 

But  the  darker  hour  draws  on, 
The  rose-tint  disappears, 
And  the  falling  cloud  returns 
To  its  native  earth  in  tears. — 

Yet  dream  thy  dream,  fair  girl  I 
Though  away  it  will  be  driven, 
'T  is  something  to  have  past 
A  single  hour  in  heaven. 

Though  thine  eye  has  April  light. 
Though  thy  cheek  has  April  bloom, 
There  is  that  upon  them  both 
Which  marks  an  early  tomb. 

So  young,  so  fair,  to  die — 
And  can  those  words  be  true  ? 
Ah  I  better  far  '  to  die,' 
Than  live  as  some  must  do ; 
9' 


110  THE  DREAM  OF  PETICIUS. 

With  a  heart  that  will  not  break, 
Though  every  nerve  be  strained, 
Whether  won  to  be  betrayed, 
Or  discovered  and  disdained  ; — 

For  Love  to  watch  Hope's  grave, 
And  yet  itself  breathe  on, 
Like  the  blighted  flower  which  lives, 
Though  scent  and  bloom  be  gone. 

But  this  watching  each  last  leaf, 
Green  on  the  fading  tree, 
The  while  we  see  it  wither, 
Is  maiden  not  for  thee. 

One  hour  of  passionate  joy. 
And  one  of  passionate  grief — 
A  morning  and  a  midnight — 
Fill  up  thy  life's  short  leaf  I 

Short,  sad,  but  still  how  much 

Of  death's  bitterness  is  past. 

Thy  last  sigh  breathed  upon  the  heart, 

Beatinff  thine  unto  the  last  ! 


BY  MARY  HOWITT. 

Still  lay  the  vessel  like  a  sleeping  thing ; 

The  calm  waves  Vv'ith  a  quiet  ripple  died  ; 
The  lazy  breeze  seemed  all  to  bring 

The  cry  of  sea-birds  dipping  in  the  tide  ; 
The  flagging  streamer  droopingly  did  cling 

Unto  the  mast.     The  unruffled  ocean  wide 


THE  DREAM  OF  PETICIUS.  Ill 

Lay  like  a  mirror,  in  whose  depth  were  seen 
Each  sunlit  peak,  and  woody  headland  green. 

More  than  a  league  they  had  not  sailed  that  day ; 

Yet  on  the  coast  was  seen  each  sleeping  hill ; 
And  island,  that  at  noon  before  them  lay, 

In  the  calm  evening  lay  before  them  still. 
The  wearied  seamen  sped  the  time  away 

With  snatches  of  blithe  song  or  whistle  shrill ; 
And  in  a  group  apart,  the  people  told 
Wild  tales,  and  dreams,  and  dark  traditions  old. 

The  captain  was  a  thoughtful  man,  whose  prime 
Had  been  in  foreign  lands  and  voyages  spent ; 

Who  brought  back  marvellous  history  from  each  clime. 
And  found  adventure  wheresoe'er  he  went. 

And,  as  such  men  are  wont  in  idle  time. 
He  from  his  life  drew  pleasant  incident ; 

Then,  as  if  woke  to  thought,  began  to  say 

What  a  strange  dream  he  had  ere  break  of  day. 

"'Twas  while  cur  vessel  scudding  to  the  breeze. 
Fled,  like  a  strong  bird,  from  yon  pleasant  shore, 

My  dream  was  of  these  bright  and  stirless  seas. 
The  flagging  canvass,  and  the  useless  oar  ; 

I  saw,  as  now  I  see,  in  slumbrous  ease 

Green  Pelion's  head,  and  those  dim  mountains  hoar 

Resting  afar  ;  I  saw  yon  glancing  bird  ; 

And  the  low  rippling  of  these  waves  I  heard. 

"  While  then  I  stood,  as  even  now  I  stand, 

My  eye  upon  the  stilly  ocean  bent, 
I  saw  a  boat  push  quickly  from  the  land. 

And  eager  rowers  with  a  firm  intent 
Make  towards  the  ship.     Within,  a  little  band 

Sate  in  mute  sadness,  as  by  travel  spent ; 
And  'mid  them  one  superior  to  the  rest. 
Pale,  as  his  soul  by  heavier  thought  was  prest. 


112  THE  DREAM  OF  PETICIUS. 

•'  They  neared — and  marvelling-  yet  more  and  more, 
I  saw  't  was  Pompey  ;  not  as  I  beheld 

Him  in  the  senate,  when  he  stood  before 

Fierce  Sylla,  and  with  taunts  his  wrath  repelled, 

Till  the  Dictator  quaked ;  or  when  he  bore 
In  triumph  trophies  from  ten  nations  quelled, 

Ardent  and  bold,  whom  myriads  as  he  went, 

Hailed  as  immortal  and  magnificent  ! 


"  Not  now  as  then — pale,  thoughtful,  ill  at  rest, 
His  fate  seemed  warring  with  his  mighty  will ; 

His  hand  on  his  contracted  brow  was  prest, 
As  it  the  force  of  throbbing  thought  could  still 

Anon  he  wrapped  his  mantle  o'er  his  breast 
With  a  calm  hand,  as  nerved  for  coming  ill. 

Then  with  a  calm,  majestic  air  arose. 

And  claimed  protection  from  his  following  foes." 


Even  when  some  pondering  sate  with  thoughtful  air, 
And  some  made  merry  with  so  strange  a  tale, 

All  eyes  were  turned  in  sudden  wonder  where 
White  o'er  the  waters  gleamed  a  little  sail ; — 

On  through  the  calm  the  striving  pinnace  bare ; — 
Then  sorrow  woke,  and  firmest  brows  grew  pale, 

For  worn  and  wearied,  Pompey  they  behold, 

Even  as  that  prophetic  dream  foretold. 

From  the  disastrous  field  of  Pharsaly 

He  fled — his  star  of  fate  was  in  the  wane  ; 

He  had  lived  a  life  of  victory  to  see 

In  one  brief  hour  his  veteran  legions  slain  ; — ■■ 

But  yesterday — the  world's  proud  lord  was  he. 
To-day — a  fugitive  upon  the  main  ; — 

Like  a  fair  tree  by  sudden  blight  defaced, 

Blasted  and  withering  in  the  desert  waste. 


THE  DEPARTED.  113 

The  sea  for  hmi  by  that  dead  cahn  was  bound, 
For  no'.v  a  strong  wind  filled  the  swelling  sail, 

And  shook  the  cordage  with  a  rattling  sound  ; 
Forward  the  pennon  floated  on  the  gale, 

And  the  dark  living  waters  heaved  around  ; 
No  more  the  islands  to  the  right  they  hail, 

Green  Pelion's  woody  crown  no  more  was  seen  ; 

But  the  ship  voyaged  free  to  Mitylene. 


BY  MRS.  M.  A.  BROWNE. 

A  FADED  flower,  a  bud  of  beauty  blasted  ; 

A  broken  lute,  a  precious  diamond  shattered  : 
A  stream  of  purest  water  early  wasted  ; 

A  priceless  essence  on  the  desert  scattered  ; 
Like  these  thou  hast  perished  in  thy  beauty  mild 
To  which  shall  we  compare  thee,  gentle  child  ? 

If  to  the  faded  flower,  we  know  its  fruit 

Is  garnered  up  amidst  Heaven's  holy  treasures 

If  to  the  lovely-tuned  and  broken  lute, 
Its  echo  mingleth  in  celestial  measures  ; 

The  diamond  is  not  lost ;  its  fragments  gather 

Into  a  star  before  the  Eternal  Father. 

The  stream  beside  the  streams  of  life  is  flowing, 
And  ever  fed  from  their  immortal  springs  ; 

The  essence  round  the  Throne  Eternal  going, 
Embodied  on  a  seraph's  radiant  wings. 

Oh,  lost  one  1  let  us  call  thee  what  we  will. 

The  very  name  hath  consolation  still. 


114  MADEMOISELLE  THERESE. 

But  we  will  liken  thee  to  some  clear  lamp, 

Whose  brightness  with  the  light  within  it  blended, 

And  through  the  cold  world's  gathering  mist  and  damp, 
Thy  soul  was  as  the  flame  that  upward  tended  ; 

The  lamp  is  broken,  and  the  miprisoned  fire 

Doth  to  the  region  of  its  birth  aspire. 


QSa/a©^[i!ia@i]©[I[L[L[l  'u'KIEBlI©!:. 
BY  MISS  MITFORD. 

OxE  of  the  prettiest  dwellings  in  our  neighborhood, 
is  the  Lime  Cottage  at  Burley-Hatch.  It  consists  of  a 
small  low-browed  habitation,  so  entirely  covered  with 
jessamine,  honeysuckle,  passion-flowers,  and  China 
roses,  as  to  resemble  a  bower,  and  is  placed  in  the  cen- 
ter of  a  large  garden, — turf  and  flowers  before,  veget- 
ables and  fruit  behind,  backed  by  a  superb  orchard, 
and  surrounded  by  quickset  hedge,  so  thick  and  close, 
and  regular,  as  to  form  an  mipregnable  defence  to  the 
territory  which  it  encloses — a  thorny  rampart,  a  living 
and  growing  cheavaux-de-frise.  On  either  side  of  the 
neat  gravel  walk,  which  leads  from  the  outer  gate  to 
the  door  of  the  cottage,  stand  the  large  and  beautiful 
trees  to  which  it  owes  its  name  ;  spreading  their  strong, 
broad  shadow  over  the  turf  beneath,  and  sending,  on  a 
summer  afternoon,  their  rich,  spicy  fragrance  half 
across  the  village  green,  dappled  with  wood  and  water,, 
and  gay  v/ith  sheep,  cattle,  and  children,  which  divides 
them  at  the  distance  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the 
little  hamlet  of  Burley,  its  venerable  church  and  hand- 
some rectory,  and  its  short  straggling  streets  of  cot- 
tages,  and  cottage-like  houses. 

Such  is  the  habitation  of  Theresede  G.,  an  emigree 
of  distinction,  whose  aunt  having  married  an  English 


MAJJEMOISLLLK  THERE.^E.  115 

officer,  was  luckily  able  to  afFord  her  i-xeice  an  a:;yluni 
during  the  horrors  of  the  Revolution,  and  to  secure  to 
her  a  small  annuity,  and  the  Lime  Cottage  after  her 
death.  There  she  has  lived  for  these  five-and-thirty 
years,  gradually  losing  sight  of  her  few  and  distant 
foreign  connexions,  and  finding  all  her  happiness  in  her 
pleasant  home  and  her  kind  neighbors — a  standing  les- 
son of  cheerfulness  and  contentment. 

A  very  popular  person  is  Mademoiselle  Therese — 
popular  both  with  high  and  low  ;  for  the  prejudice 
which  the  country  people  almost  universally  entertain 
against  foreigners,  vanished  directly  before  the  charm 
of  her  manners,  the  gaity  of  her  heart,  and  the  sun- 
shine of  a  temper  that  never  knows  a  cloud.  She  is  so 
kind  to  them  too,  so  liberal  of  the  produce  of  her  or- 
chard and  garden,  so  full  of  resource  in  their  difficul- 
ties, and  so  sure  to  afFord  sympathy  if  she  have  nothing 
else  to  give,  that  the  poor  all  idolize  Mademoiselle. 
Among  the  rich  she  is  equally  beloved.  No  party  is 
complete  without  the  pleasant  French  woman,  whose 
amenity  and  cheerfulness,  her  perfect,  general  polite- 
ness, her  attention  to  the  old,  the  poor,  the  stupid,  and 
the  neglected,  are  felt  to  be  invaluable  in  society.  Her 
conversation  is  not  very  pov.-erful  either,  nor  very  bril- 
liant ;  she  never  says  any  thing  remarkable — but  then 
it  is  so  good-natured,  so  genuine,  so  unpretending,  so 
constantly  up  and  alive,  that  one  would  feel  its  absence 
far  more  than  that  of  a  more  showy  and  ambitious 
talker  ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  charm  which  it  derives 
from  her  language,  which  is  alternately  the  most  grace- 
ful, and  purest  French,  and  the  most  diverting  and  ab- 
surd broken  English ;  a  dialect  in  which,  whilst  con- 
triving to  make  herself  perfectly  understood  both  by 
gentle  and  simple,  she  does  also  contrive  in  the  course 
of  an  hour,  to  commit  more  blunders,  than  all  the 
other  foreigners  in  England  make  in  a  month. 

Her  appearance  betrays  her  country  almost  as  much 
as  her  speech.     She  is  a  French  looking  little  person- 


116  MADEMOISELLE  THERESE. 

age,  with  a  slight,  active  figure,  exceedingly  nimble 
and  alert  in  every  moveir^cnt ;  a  round  and  darkly- 
complexioned  face,  somewhat  faded  and  passes,  but 
still  striking  from  the  laughing  eyes,  the  bland  and 
brilliant  smile,  and  the  great  mobility  of  expression. 
Her  features,  pretty  as  they  are,  want  the  repose  of  an 
English  countenance  ;  and  her  air  gesture,  and  dress, 
are  decidedly  foreign,  all  alike  deficient  in  the  English 
charm  of  quietness. 

Nevertheless,  in  her  youth,  she  must  have  been  pretty; 
so  pretty  that  some  of  our  young  ladies,  scandalized  at 
finding  their  favorite  an  old  maid,  have  invented  sun- 
dry legends  to  excuse  the  solecism,  and  talk  of  duels 
fought  pour  Vamour  des  beaux  yeux,  and  of  a  be- 
trothed lover  guillotined  in  the  Revolution.  And  the 
thing  may  have  been  so  ;  although  one  meets  every 
where  with  old  maids  w^ho  have  been  pretty,  and  whose 
lovers  have  been  guillotined  ;  and  although  Mademoi- 
selle Therese  has  not,  to  do  her  justice,  the  least  in  the 
world  the  air  of  a  heroine  crossed  in  love.  The  thing 
may  be  so  ;  but  I  doubt  it  much.  I  rather  suspect  our 
fair  Demoiselle  of  having  been  in  her  youth  a  little,  a 
very  little,  the  least  in  the  world  of  a  flirt.  Even  dur- 
ing her  residence  at  Burley-Hatch,  hath  she  not  in- 
dulged in  divers  very  distant,  very  discreet,  very  de- 
corous, but  still  very  evident  flirtations  ?  Did  not  Dr. 
Abdy,  the  portly,  ruddy  schoolmaster  of  B.,  dangle  af- 
ter her  for  three  mortal  years,  holidays  excepted  ? — 
And  did  not  she  refuse  him  at  last  ?  And  Mr.  Fore- 
close, the  thin,  withered,  wrinkled  city  solicitor,  a 
man,  so  to  say,  smoke-dried,  who  comes  down  every 
year  to  Burley  for  the  air,  did  not  he  do  suit  and  ser- 
vice to  her  during  four  long  vacations,  with  the  same 
ill  success  ?  Was  not  Sir  Thomas  himself  a  little  smit- 
ten  ?  Nay,  even  now,  does  not  the  good  Major,  a  halt- 
ing  veteran  of  seventy — but  really  it  is  too  bad  to  tell 
tales  out  of  the  parish — ail  that  is  certain  is,  that  Ma- 
demoiselle Therese  might  have    changed  her  name, 


MADEMOISELLE  THERESE.  117 

long  before  now,  had  she  so  chcsen  ;  and  that  it  is 
most  probable  that  she  will  never  change  it  at  all. 

Her  household  consists  of  her  little  maid  Betsy,  a 
cherry-cheeked,  bluc-eycd  country  lass,  brought  up  by 
herself,  who,  with  a  clumsy  figure,  and  a  fair,  inno- 
cent, unmeaning  countenance,  eopicsas  closely  as  these 
obstacles  will  permit,  the  looks'  and  gesture  of  her  alert 
and  vivacious  mistress,  and  has  even  caught  her  brok- 
en English  ; — of  a  fat  lap-dog  called  Fido,  silky,  sleepy 
and  sedate  ; — and  of  a  beautiful  white  Spanish  ass, 
called  Donnabella,  an  animal  docile  and  spirited,  far  be- 
yond the  generality  of  that  despised  race,  who  draws  her 
little  donkey-chaise  half  the  country  over,  runs  to  her 
the  moment  she  sees  her,  and  eats  roses,  bread  and  ap. 
pies  from  her  hand ;  but  who,  accustomed  to  be  fed 
and  groomed,  harnessed  and  driven  only  by  females,  re- 
sists  and  rebels  the  moment  she  is  approached  by  the 
rougher  sex ;  has  overturned  more  boys,  and  kicked 
more  men,  than  any  donkey  in  the  kingdom  ;  a^id  has 
acquired  such  a  character  for  re  tive  less  amo;igst  the 
grooms  in  the  neighborhood,  ;hat  when  Mademoiselle 
Therose  goes  out  to  dinner,  Betsy  is  in  fain  to  go  with 
her  to  drive  Donnabella  home  again,  and  to  re-urn  to 
fetch  her  mistress  in  the  evening. 

If  every  body  is  delighted  to  receive  this  most  wel- 
come  visiter,  so  is  every  body  delighted  to  ac?ep'  her 
graceful  invitations,  and  meet  to  eat  strawberries  at 
Burley-Hatch.  Oh,  how  pleasant  are  those  summer 
afternoons,  sitting  under  the  blossomed  limes,  with 
the  sun  shedding  a  golden  light  through  the  broad 
branches,  the  bee?  murmuring  over  head,  roses  and 
lilies  all  about  us,  and  the  choicest  fruit  served  up  in 
wicker  baskets  of  her  own  making — itself  a  picture  ! 
the  guests  looking  so  pleased  and  happy,  and  the  kind 
hostess  the  gayest  and  happiest  of  all.  These  are 
pleasant  meetings ;  nor  are  her  little  winter  parties 
less  agreeable,  when  to  two  or  three  female  friends  as- 
scmbled  round  their  coffee,  she  will  tell  thrilling  auec- 
10 


118  MADEMOISELLE  THERESE. 

dotes  of  that  terrible  Revolution,  so  fertile  in  great 
crimes  and  great  virtues;  or  gayer  stories  of  the 
brilliant  days  preceding  that  convulsion,  the  days 
which  Madame  de  Genlis  has  described  so  well,  when 
Paris  was  the  capital  of  pleasure,  and  amusement  the 
business  of  life  ;  illustrating  her  descriptions  by  a  se- 
ries  of  spirited  drawings  of  costumes  and  characters 
done  by  herself,  and  always  finishing  by  producing  a 
group  of  Louis  Seize,  Marie  Antoinette,  the  Dauphin, 
and  Madame  Elizabeth,  as  she  had  last  seen  them  at 
Versailles — the  only  recollection  that  ever  brings  tears 
into  her  smiling  eyes. 

Mademoiselle  Therese's  loyalty  to  the  Bourbons,  is 
in  truth  a  very  real  feeling.  Her  family  had  been  about 
the  court,  and  she  had  imbibed  an  enthusiasm  for  the 
royal  sufferers,  natural  to  a  young  and  a  warm  heart — 
she  loved  the  Bourbons,  and  hated  Napoleon  with  the 
like  ardor.  All  her  other  French  feelings  had  for  some 
time  been  a  little  modified.  She  was  not  quite  so  sure 
as  she  had  been,  that  France  was  the  only  country, 
and  Paris  the  only  city  of  the  world  ;  that  Shakspeare 
was  a  barbarian,  and  Milton  no  poet ;  that  the  per- 
fume of  English  limes,  was  nothing  compared  to  French 
orange  trees;  that  the  sun  never  shone  in  England  ; 
and  that  sea-coal  fires  were  bad  things.  She  still,  in- 
deed, would  occasionally  make  these  assertions,  espec 
ially  if  dared  to  make  them — but  her  faith  in  them  was 
shaken.  Her  loyalty  to  her  legitimate  king,  was,  how. 
ever,  as  strong  as  ever,  and  that  loyalty  had  nearly 
cost  us  our  dear  Mademoiselle.  After  the  Restoration, 
she  hastened  as  fast  as  steamboat  and  diligence  could 
carry  her,  to  enjoy  the  delight  of  seeing  once  more  the 
Bourbons  at  the  Thuilleries ;  took  leave,  between  smiles 
and  tears,  of  her  friends,  and  of  Barley-Hatch,  carry- 
ing with  her  a  branch  of  the  lime  tree,  then  in  blos- 
som, and  commissioning  her  old  lover,  Mr.  Foreclose, 
to  dispose  of  the  cottage  ;  but  in  less  than  three  months, 
luckily  before   Mr.  Foreclose   had  found  a  purchaser, 


NATURE  AND  ART.  119 

Mademoiselle  Thercse  came  home  again.  She  com- 
plained of  nobody  ;  but  times  were  altered.  The  house 
in  which  she  was  born  was  pulled  down ;  her  friends 
were  scattered,  her  kindred  dead ;  Madame  did  not 
remember  her  (she  had  probably  never  heard  of  her 
in  her  life);  the  king  did  not  know  her  again  (poor  man! 
he  had  not  seen  her  for  these  thirty  years);  Paris  was 
a  new  city  ;  the  French  were  a  new  people  ;  she  missed 
the  sea-coal  fire  ;  and  for  the  stunted  orange  trees  at 
the  Thuilleries,  what  were  they  compared  with  the 
blossomed  limes  of  Burlcy-Hatch  ! 


BY  MRS.  C.  GORE. 

On  the  coast  of  Lancashire,  within  distant  view  of 
the  ruins  of  Furness  Abbey,  lies  a  small  territory,  an 
island  or  peninsula,  according  to  the  ebb  or  flow  of  the 
tides  that  lave  its  flat  and  unfruitful  shores.  At  noon, 
perhaps,  the  traveller  beholds  it  an  islet,  moored,  as  it 
were,  under  the  protection  of  the  main  land;  isolated 
and  cheerless,  containing — in  the  midst  of  the  forty 
acres  of  arid  land  which  centuries  of  cultivation  have 
barely  redeemed  from  barrenness— 'a  single  dwelling  ; 
a  small  farm,  the  rosemary  bushes  of  whose  garden- 
enclosures  form  the  nearest  approach  to  a  tree  dis- 
cernible in  the  place.  But  a  few  hours  later  the  dreari. 
ness  of  Haiiisle,  (or  Helisle,  as  it  is  pronounced  by  the 
fishermen  of  the  coast,)  is  in  some  degree  relieved  by 
the  reappearance  of  the  hard  smooth  sands,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  in  extent,  connecting  it  with  the  Lancashire 
coast.  It  now  assumes  the  aspect  of  a  rude  nook  of 
earth,  ribbed  from  the  neighboring  farms  by  the  firm 


V20  NATURE  AND  ART. 

compact  terrace,  which  affords  a  delightful  and  exhila. 
rating  walk  to  the  inmates  of  that  solitary  abode. 

Viewed  from  the  house,  however,  the  scene  assumed 
a  totally  different  appearance.  Persons  accustomed 
to  the  rich  garniture  of  inland  landscape,  with  its  con- 
trasling  features  of  hill,  dale,  or  mountain — river,  lake, 
or  torrent — verdant  pasture  or  golden  plain — are  apt 
to  tax  a  marine  prospect  with  monotony.  But  ask  the 
abiders  by  the  great  deep  whether  they  ever  experience 
the  sense  of  satiety  arising  from  sameness  of  object  ? 
It  is  not  alone  the  vast  transition  from  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  summer  sea  to  the  boiling,  seething  fury 
of  the  migh  y  ocean  laboring  with  the  terrors  of  the 
storm,  which  vary  their  unspeakable  extent  of  pros- 
pect. A  thou.'-and  intermediary  changes  are  hourly, 
momeniarily,  perceptible.  Not  a  cloud  sailing  across 
the  sunnv  sky, — and  ocean  skies  teem  with  those  hu- 
mid  exhalations, — but  casts  a  correspondent  shadow 
on  the  surface  of  the  waters,  darkening  their  blue  to 
purple,  or  changing  their  glossy  green  to  the  tinges  of 
the  dying  dolphin.  The  "  sea-changes"  of  a  marine 
view  are  in  fact  so  infinitely  multiplied  by  the  effects 
of  v.'ind  and  weather,  tide  and  time,  that  from  the  first 
gleam  of  morning  to  the  last  of  evening  twilight,  too 
v/onderful  a  succession  of  beauties  presents  itself  to 
the  observant  eye,  for  the  commemoration  of  pen  or 
pencil. 

But  independently  of  its  fine  prospects  of  the  open 
sea,  the  farm  of  Helisle  commanded  a  coast-view  of 
unusual  interest.  Though  immediately  adjoining  the 
spot  the  shore  presented  only  a  gravelly  bank,  yet  at 
the  distance  of  half  a  mile  along  its  windings,  com- 
mences  the  beautiful  mountainous  ridge,  shelving  to 
the  sands  of  Furness  from  the  lofty  heights  diversify- 
ing the  district  of  the  Lakes.  From  these,  with  their 
changeful  mists  or  clear  prominence  against  the  .sky, 
Helisle  borrows  another  source  of  endless  variety  ;  and 
while  the  dainty  tourist  might  pronounce  this  region 


iNATUKE  AND  ART.  121 

•  t'guils  ami  curlews,  remote  from  cliy,  town,  or  even 
village,  the  most  desolate  fragment  of  a  sufficiently 
tiesoiate  country,  the  dwellers  on  the  spot  found  in  its 
exciting  breezes  and  varying  tides  as  attractive  a  play 
of  features  as  ever  brightened  the  serene  countenance 
of  solitude. 

Yet  the  inmates  of  the  secluded  house  \vere  people 
vi-ho  had  scon  the  stir  and  tumult  of  the  world  ;  had 
sat  and  even  presided  at  good  men's  feasts ;  having 
retired  to  the  precarious  shelter  of  that  comfortless 
abode  neither  from  disgust  at  the  giddiness  of  the 
crowd,  nor  a  milder  frame  of  self-denying  philosophy. 
They  came  there  all  but  pennyless ; — they  still  abided 
there,  miserably  poor,  Bat  though  Master  Warn- 
ford's  wife  v/as  sainted  by  her  humble  neighbors  of  the 
coast  as  "  Mistress"  or  "  Daine,"  she  had  claim  to  the 
right  honorable  title  of  "  the  Lady  Anne,"  being 
daughter  to  the  Earl  of  Lovell,  one  of  the  proudest 
peers  of  England  ;  by  whom,  on  her  rash  marriage  at 
sixteen  with  the  younger  son  of  one  of  Cromwell's  up- 
start general?,  she  had  been  cast  off  and  renounced 
for  evermore.  The  earl,  by  whose  undue  domestic 
severity  the  ear  of  his  daughter  was  first  inclined  tow- 
ards  the  first  lovesuit  tendered  to  her  charms,  resented 
with  harshnc.-s  the  rash  step  his  harshness  had  brought 
about ;  and  though,  for*  five  years  after  their  marriage, 
the  Warnfords  entertained  no  doubt  of  his  eventual 
pardon,  they  were  at  length  forced  reluctantly  to  ad- 
mit that  all  liDDC  was  lost  of  Lord  Loveli's  secession 
from  his  oath  to  behold  his  daughter's  face  no  more. 
They  now  felt  that  they  should  have  dealt  more  spar- 
ingly  with  the  small  patrimony  derived  by  Warnford 
from  his  deceased  parents,  which  was  all  but  dissi- 
pated in  the  belief  that,  afrcr  a  certain  period  of  es- 
trangemenl,  the  earl  would  recall  his  daughter  to  his 
favor,  and  restore  her  to  her  rights  upon  his  inherit- 
ance. 

10* 


122  NATURE  AND  ART. 

But  this  expectation  was  extinguished.  A  staunch 
adlierent  of  the  House  of  Stuart,  to  whose  haughty 
and  obdurate  despotism  the  frailties  of  his  own  nature 
bore  considerable  afHnity,  the  Earl  of  Loveli  had  in 
his  time  been  exposed  to  ijisult  and  injury  at  the  hands 
of  the  Roundheads  ;  and  his  narrow-  spirit  took  delight 
in  revenging  on  the  son  and  grandchildren  of  General 
Warnford  the  long-smarting  wounds  of  his  self-love  ; 
regardless  that  in  the  veins  of  the  latter  was  flow^mg 
the  blood  of  progenitors  whom  he  w^orshipped  with  all 
the  paltry  adulation  of  family  pride.  Rejecting  every 
overture  of  reconciliation  from  his  daughter,  he  left 
her  letters  of  entreaty  mianswered,  and  at  length  re- 
turned  them  unopened ;  till  Warnford,  w^ho,  at  thirty 
years  of  age,  had  progressed  from  the  romantic  youth 
into  a  disappointed,  gloomy,  helpless  man,  insisted  that 
she  should  humiliate  herself  and  him  no  more  by  the 
renewal  of  these  unavailing  solicitations. 

From  the  period  of  their  imprudent  marriage,  the 
young  people  had  inhabited  a  small  house  in  the  little 
capital  of  the  county-palatinate,  of  which  Warnford's 
mother  was  a  native  ;  and  there,  in  attempting  to  se- 
cure to  the  lovely  Lady  Aime,  whom  he  had  allured, 
while  a  student  of  Oxford,  from  her  father's  stately 
mansion  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  university,  some 
portion  of  the  comforts  of  her  luxurious  home,  his  sub- 
stance had  dw^indled  away.  At  tlikty  he  was  the 
father  of  two  children,  a  girl  and  boy,  with  barely  the 
means  of  maintenance  for  his  single  self. 

"  We  shall  starve — we  and  these  helpless  ones  must 
starve  !"  was  Warnford's  desponding  ejaculation,  on 
the  night  when  Lord  Lovell's  silent  rejection  of  his 
daughter's  last  petition  satisfied  them  that  all  expec- 
tation of  succor  from  his  mercy  was  at  an  end.  "  Our 
debts  in  this  place  nearly  equal  the  small  remnant  of 
my  means.  I  have  no  friends,  no  kinsmen,  no  interest 
to  push  me  forward  in  the  vrorld.  Though  the  slight- 
est word  from  Lord  Lovell's  lips   would,   without  di- 


IVATLKK  A>iU  AKT.  123 

iiiiiiishiiig  by  a  doit  the  property  he  prizes  so  dearly, 
secure  nic  from  the  king's  government  the  occasion  to 
work  out  my  indepcndeiice  and  bestow  an  education 
on  our  children,  we  must  sink  still  lower  in  the  scale 
of  misery — must  work — must  want — and  perhaps  work 
and  want  in  vain.  Perhaps,  with  our  best  efforts, 
these  babes  may  sink  under  their  privations  ;  and  you, 
my  patient,  suffering  wife,  prove  unable  to, confront 
the  hardships  we  have  no  longer  hope  to  overcome. 
Would — would  that  I  had  died,  ere  I  persuaded  you  to 
desert  your  prosperous  and  bright  career,  for  the 
cheerless  home  of  an  obscure  and  poverty-stricken 
man  !" 

"  Have  you  courage  to  say  this  ?"  faltered  his  wife, 
who  sat  rocking  with  one  foot  the  cradle  of  their  elder 
child,  and  holding  in  her  arms  the  noble  infant  she 
had  just  hushed  off  to  sleep  upon  her  bosom,  "when 
you  know  that  my  sole  solace  in  my  troubles  is  the 
belief  that  life  would  have  been  worthless  in  your  eyes 
unshared  by  the  v.ife  and  children  who  are  v/eighing 
you  down  to  ^joverty  !" 

"  And  so  it  would  !*'  cried  Warnford,  with  rapid  ut- 
terance. "  You  have  been,  you  ere,  you  ever  will  be 
— the  crown  and  glory  of  my  days.  The  sight  of  these 
children  and  their  tender  caresses  would  be  as  a  fore- 
taste of  heaven,  but  for  thp  anxieties  for  their  future 
welfare  darkening  my  soul.  But  to  know  that,  griev- 
ous as  are  the  straits  to  which  my  rashness  has  re- 
duced you,  they  must  become  a  thousand-fold  more 
cruel,  distracts  my  very  reason.  You,  so  tenderly 
reared — so  cared  for,  that  your  foot  fell  upon  velvet, 
and  not  a  breath  v/as  suffered  to  blov/  on  your  fragile 
youth — 1J0U  to  labor — you  to  need  the  common  neces- 
saries  of  life  I — O  why  was  I  tempted  to  do  this  thing, 
and  how  shall  I  abide  the  sight  of  your  wretched- 
ness ?" 

"  Cheer  up,  Warnford  I"  cried  the  kiad-heartcd  be- 
ing,   v.hose  nature  v.-as  a  nature  of  love,   sparing  one 


12  i  KATUKE  AND  ART.    . 

hand  fr&:n  her  ii:tle  charge  to  extend  it  to  the  ready 
caress  of  her  husband.  "  If  Uiis  be  all,  cheer  up  I — 
You  know  me  only  as  the  thriftless,  giddy  girl — the 
dai:ity,  tender  v.-oman — henceforward  you  shall  see 
me  the  stirring  matron — the  careful  housewife.  Love 
would  be  a  pitiful  thing  did  it  suggest  no  higher  proof 
of  its  strength  than  honeyed  words  and  idle  fondling, 
suoh  as  I  have,  perhaps,  wearied  you  withal.  But  it 
has  a  power  and  a  courage  of  its  own  !  Trust  me,  it 
has  a  power  and  courage  of  its  own  I — a  power  to  act, 
a  courage  to  bear,  which  constitute  a  yet  more  inti- 
mate  portion  of  its  happiness.  Had  v.'e  been  prosper- 
ous— world-seekors,  pleasure-hunters,  wasters  of  the 
gawds  and  luxuries  of  life — sweet  protestations  and 
tender  embraces  had  been  the  utmost  proof  in  my 
power  that  never  have  I  repented  the  act  suggested 
by  the  wantonness  of  girlish  preference.  My  reason 
nov/  confirms  my  choice.  The  blessing  of  God  de- 
crees that  the  vows  so  lightsomcly  svrorn  can  nov.'  be 
renevi?ed  with  all  the  solemnity  of  womanly  truth  ; 
and  to  that  first  sweet  promise  to  love  and  honor,  in 
sickness  and  in  health,  to  take  for  richer,  for  poorer, 
for  batter,  f  jr  worse, — I  superadd  a  pledge  that,  know, 
ing  the  poorer,  and  having  experience  of  the  worse,  I 
would  still  bear  alh  and  -r.c-re  also,  for  your  sake." 

Warnford  made  no  reply.  He  was  laboring,  v.ith  a 
strong  man's  effort,  to  restrain  the  tears  that  would 
have  fain  burst  from  the  inmost  recesses  of  his  heart. 
He  v.-as  too  proud  to  weep  in  her  presence — too  ago- 
nized to  speak. 

"  You  think,  perhaps,"  added  Lr^dy  Anne,  ixi  a  low- 
er voice,  "that  this  fortitude  will  not  abide;  that 
poverty  is  a. gnawing  thing  which  devours  the  strong- 
est courage.  Try  me  !  1  have  the  consciousness  of 
a  stronger  mind — a  yet  more  enduring  patience.  I 
defy  the  cares  or  wants  of  life  to  do  more  than  bow 
down  ray  body  to  death  ; — they  pliall  neither  tire  my 


NATURE  AND  ART.  125 

submission  nor  exhaust  my  tenderness  for  you  and 
those  whom  you  have  given  me  !" 

He  was  about  to  answer,  w^hen  pressing-  his  hand 
fervently  with  the  soft  slender  fingers  in  which  it  was 
still  enveloped,  she  added,  "  One  word  more  ! — I  have 
a  condition  to  affix  to  my  devotedness. — I  must  have 
you  cheer  your  spirits  for  my  sake — I  must  have  you 
up  and  bestir  yourself — I  must  have  you  persevere  to 
a  good  end  I  I  will  labor  cheerfully,  but  you  must  be 
my  help-mate  and  companion.  I  will  oppose  a  cheer- 
ful face  to  sorrow,  but  yours  must  no  longer  wear  a 
frown'.  V/e  are  not  utterly  deserted  of  Heaven — v/e 
have  youth  and  health  ;  and  for  how  many  of  the 
creatures  of  God  do  these  form  a  sufficient  provision  ! 
Such  fair  and  promising  children  are  not  vouchsafed 
to  us  in  vain.  They  are  given  us  as  pledges  of  better 
days — they  arc  given  us  as  encouragement  to  bear  and 
to  forbear — they  are  given  as  an  incitement  to  our  ef. 
forts,  and  a  comfort  to  our  cares.  For  them,  dearest, 
and  for  7ne,  look  to  the  brighter  side  of  things.  If  I 
do  not  forget  my  father,  I  have  at  least  forgotten  my 
father's  house ;  nay,  I  have  forgotten  all,  save  love 
and  duty — love  that  makes  duty  light,  and  duty  that 
sobers  and  consecrates  the  sportiveness  of  love.  Low 
as  we  are  in  life,  I  am  happy  ;  be  happy  too,  and  no- 
thing  will  be  left  me  to  desire." 

And,  lo  I  thus  cheered  and  comforted,  there  was 
hope  by  the  desolate  fireside  of  the  necessitous  man. 

But  this  was  not  all.  Words  of  solace  were  not  the 
only  offering  of  the  good  and  tender  wife.  She  had 
words  of  counsel,  too,  for  his  ear,  which,  after  much 
debate,  tended  to  a  happy  issue. 

Lady  Anne  persuaded  him  to  quit  Lancaster,  to  re- 
nounce  the  intercourse  of  those  of  their  own  degree — 
people  who  loved  f  hem  no  jot  the  better  for  attempts 
to  maintain  a  position  in  life  ruinous  to  their  narrow 
fortunes.  After  much  seeking,  they  found  notice  at 
an  attorney's  office  of  a  vacancy  at  the  miserable  farm 


126  NATURE  AND  ART. 

of  Helisle  :  ,and  nearly  the  remainder  of  Warnford's 
heritage  was  expended  in  the  necessary  outlay  for 
lease,  stock,  and  plenishing.  Having  settled  them- 
selved  thus,  at  the  extremity  of  civilization,  they  re- 
signed all  pretence  to  gentleness  of  condition,  the 
pomps  of  life  ;  v/orked  hard,  fared  hard ;  and  after 
two  years  buffeting  between  necessity  aud  the  linger- 
ing influence  of  their  early  breeding,  found  their  re- 
finement of  nature  and  sentiment  worn  down  to  the 
exigencies  of  their  condition.  Algernon  Warnford 
held  the  plough  which  was  to  procure  bread  for  his 
children,  wliile  Mistress  Warnford  tended  the  tv\"o  lean 
milch-kine  ;  which  afforded  their  chief  subsistence. 

The  unfruitful  soil  was  such  as  to  tax  the  utmost 
efforts  of  the  inexperienced  husbandman.  The  peas- 
ant's boy  and  girl  hired  to  assist  the  labors  of  the  dis- 
ti'essed  family,  gave  only  trouble  by  their  ignorance. 
But  in  the  sequel,  perseverance  prevailed.  Though 
he  who,  as  a  gentleman,  had  been  a  bad  scholar, 
proved  as  a  farmer  an  indifferent  agriculturist,  the 
effort  of  being  up  early  and  late,  toiling  through  sum. 
mer's*  sun  and  winter's  frost,  overcame,  as  providence 
hath  promised,  the  stubborn  curse  of  nature  ;  and  at 
the  close  of  five  years  of  heavy  labor,  the  Warnfords 
were  not  only  able  to  maintain  their  elder  children, 
and  a  younger — an  ocean  pearl,  born  in  the  briny  sol- 
itude of  Helisle — but  had  amassed  great  store  of  wealth 
— a  press  full  of  linen,  spun  under  their  roof — several 
articles  of  household  furniture,  the  product  of  their 
united  ingenuity — and,  above  all,  a  stout  coble-boat, 
which,  with  the  aid  of  an  able  builder  from  White- 
haven, who  passed  a  couple  of  summer  months  domi- 
ciled with  them  at  the  farm,  Warnford  had  launched 
with  great  ceremony  from  the  stocks,  and  christened 
and  painted  with  the  auspicious  name  of  "The  Lady 
Anne  of  Helisle."  It  may  be  doubted  whether  the 
Earl  of  Lovell,  who  was  now  officiating  in  his  frivo- 
lous old  age  as  Lord  Chamberlain  to  his  most  gracious 


KATLHE  AISD  ART.  127 

Majesty,  had  in  the  iiiterhn  achieved  any  effort  half 
so  gratifying. 

Nor  was  the  ornamental  department  wholly  ne- 
glected. Warnford  had  retouched  and  whitewashed, 
within  and  without,  the  plaster  walls  of  the  little 
dwelling,  had  contrived  a  rude  carpet  of  sheepskins 
for  the  portion  of  the  hall  or  kitchen  specially  habited 
by  his  wife,  and  had  even  planted  the  spot  of  ground 
beneath  her  window  with  hedges  of  fragrant  rosemary, 
which,  as  its  name  denotelh,  rejoices  in  the  dew  of  the 
sea;  for  the  sea  spray  reached  it  there.  On  winter 
nights  the  humbleness  of  the  one-storied  mansion  was 
its  sole  security  against  the  tremendous  storm-bursts 
of  the  Irish  channel  ;  and  often,  when  signals  of  dis- 
tress  boomed  from  the  offing.  Mistress  Warnford  would 
start  from  her  pillow,  and  with  a  prayer  of  interces- 
sion for  the  souls  in  peril,  bless  the  roof  that  gave  such 
comfortable  shelter  to  the  helpless  ones  whom  her  soul 
loved. 

In  fine  weather,  she  and  her  children — moi'e  espec 
ially  her  son  Walter — often  accompanied  Warnford 
when  his  day's  labors  were  done,  in  an  evening  sail, 
coasting  those  beautiful  shores.  Or  she  would  follow 
him  to  the  mainland,  when  business  carried  him  to 
market  at  Daltou  or  Rampside,  for  a  kindly  visit  to  the 
wives  of  one  or  two  small  farmers,  with  whom  they 
maintained  interchange  ofgood-will,borrovring  or  lend- 
ing, nursing  or  claiming  tendance  in  sickness,  exchang. 
ing  a  basket  offish  for  a  brood  of  early  chickens,  or  a 
measure  of  rapcsced  or  yarn,  for  faggot  wood  or  turf. 
It  was  one  of  the  sacrifices  expected  of  Warnford's 
pride  by  his  more  nobly  constituted  wife,  that  he  should 
sloop  in  all  things  to  his  altered  condition,  and  live, 
and  let  live,  with  those  among  whom  Providence  had 
appoi)ited  their  career. 

There  was  old  Hal  llobbs  and  his  danje,  caterers  on 
the  Condish  estates,  which  extend  along  the  coast  by 
Furness,  who  thought  the  month  a  long  one  in  v.hich 


128  NATURE  AND  ART. 

Mistress  Warnford,  or  her  good  man,  forgot  to  bring 
Watty  and  Lecny  to  taste  their  honey,  or  garden  ber- 
ries. 

"IVIarry — the  boy  and  girl  v>rere  so  sprightly,  yet  so 
jaunty  and  WfU-spoken  withal,"  that  the  old  people 
hailed  the  coming  of  the  young  mother,  (with  her  large 
loving  eyes  beaming  tenderness  on  the  fair  child,  the 
young  Lucy,  that  still  lingered  in  her  arms,  from 
fondling  more  than  helplessness,)  as  a  festival  in  their 
life  of  labor. 

Bat  as  years  drew  on,  the  mother,  as  by  nature  ap- 
pointed, began  to  outweigh  the  wife  in  the  bosom  of 
Lord  Lovell's  daughter.  She  had  borne  cheerfully 
with  her  lot  for  herself,  and  for  her  husband  ;  she 
could  not  be  so  easily  contented  for  her  children.  Her 
mind,  and  that  of  Warnford,  had  been  formed  by  early 
education ;  and  though  no  leisure  or  opportunity  was 
left  them  now  for  indulgence  of  scholarship,  they  knevv' 
enough  to  derive  double  enjoyment  from  the  revealed 
phenomena  of  nature,  which  afforded  the  recreation  of 
their  uneventful  lives.  But  the  children  had  no  books, 
no  instructors  ;  and,  engrossed  by  the  homely  industry 
indispensable  to  their  support,  their  parents  could  do 
little  in  that  task  of  unremitting  preceptorship  indis- 
pensable to  drive  the  young  and  volatile  through  the 
thorny  ways  of  learning, 

Walter  and  Helena  accordingly  wandered  all  day 
long  about  the  featureless  fields  of  the  islet,  without  a 
shrub  or  bush  to  fix  their  attention,  or  a  field-llower 
to  enliven  the  saline  herbage.  Hand  in  hand  they 
watched  by  the  shore  till  the  receding  tide  left  clear 
to  their  eager  feet  those  sparkling  sands,  to  which  ev- 
ery ebb  of  the  watex's  afforded  hazard  or  novelty;  pur. 
pie  sea-shells,  lightly  embedded  there,  the  curious 
pebble,  the  stranded  weed,  detached  from  the  podded 
vegetation  clinging  to  the  sunken  rocks ;  the  living 
jellies  of  the  sca-anem-one  or  star.fish,  or  some  shelly 
outcast  flung  by  the  waves  on  the  shore  to  crawl  its 


NATURE  AND  ART.  129 

avvkwaril  way  back  again  to  a  more  congenial  cle- 
ment. The  white  gulls  would  stand  unheeding,  while 
the  two  little  ones  went  wandering  up  and  down  ;  or 
the  curlew  dip  its  wing  into  the  wave  within  reach  of 
their  little  hands ;  so  gentle  were  their  movements, 
and  so  customav}'-  their  presence  on  the  spot. 

Bat  when  Waller  attained  the  age  of  hardihood,  and 
at  ten  years  old,  delighted  to  unmoor  the  coble  from 
its  chain,  and  havijig  set  the  sail,  steer  boldly  along 
the  shore  tovrards  Furness,  having  compelled  his  sis- 
ter to  bear  him  company,  that  they  might  encounter 
together  the  chastisement  of  their  disobedience,  Mis- 
tress Warnford  felt  that  the  boy's  spirit  was  breaking 
bounds.  He  had  none  of  the  usual  occupations  of 
youth  to  exhaust  his  elasticity  of  limb  and  muscle — 
no  pony  to  ride — no  tree  to  climb — no  companion  to 
overcome  in  wrestling,  quoits,  or  other  athletic  exer- 
cises. He  had  no  associate  but  his  sister  Helena  ;  for 
a  sort  of  innate  arrogance  kept  him  aloof  from  the 
herdsman  emploj'cd  in  the  out-door  labors  of  the  farm. 
At  length,  having  cficapcd  one  day  from  home  to  the 
fair  at  Dalton,  and  tarried  away  till  the  tide  had 
flowed,  and  ebbed  and  flowed  again,  distracting  his 
mother  with  apprehensions  lest,  finding  himself  be- 
lated, he  should  attempt  to  wade  through  the  channel 
of  the  flowing  waters  when  nearly  breast-high  as  she 
had  often  known  him  do  before — she  resolved,  when 
she  cla.^pcd  the  truant  once  more  in  her  arms,  (after 
having  dared  the  passage  in  a  crazy  tub  of  a  boat,  long 
conde.nned  as  unseaworthy  by  the  fishermen  of  Ram- 
side,)  to  make  some  attempt  at  rescuing  her  son  from 
a  state  of  life,  where  the  energies  of  his  arrogant  na- 
ture  v.'cre  thus  afHictingly  doomed  to  run  to  waste. 

A  letter  was  accordingly  indited  to  the  Earl  of 
Lovell  by  his  daughter ;  pretending  no  penitence  for 
the  past,  but  setting  forth  the  degraded  prospects  of 
her  children  for  the  future,  unless  he  deigned  to  ex- 
tend a  succorable  hand,  and  enable  them  by  fitting  ed- 
11 


130  INATUKE  AND  ART. 

ucation  to  assume  at  some  future  time  a  positioa  in 
the  world  more  consonant  with  their  honorable  kins- 
manship.  For  herself,  she  asked  nothing — low  as  was 
her  estate,  Lady  Anne  avou'ed  herself  content.  All 
she  entreated  of  her  father  was  to  call  her  fair  young 
son  to  his  presence,  and  decide,  by  personal  investiga- 
tion, whether  it  were  not  foul  shame  for  a  3-outh  so 
nobly  gifted  in  mind  and  body,  to  sink  into  a  hewer  of 
wood  and  drawer  of  water.  Unknown  to  Warnford 
was  the  letter  written  and  despatched  to  the  Dal  ton 
post-office ;  and  as  his  wife  stood  watching  the  coble 
driving  over  the  little  channel  to  the  main  land,  bear, 
ing  with  it  the  missive  which  was  to  decide  the  desti- 
nies of  her  offspring,  slie  almost  trembled  at  the  re- 
flection  that  her  proceeding  might  become  a  source  of 
alienation  in  the  little  family,  even  as  her  island  home, 
which  at  sunrise  had  been  part  and  parcel  of  the  con- 
tinent, was  nov/  a  severed  islet,  cinctured  by  the  roar- 
ing  sea. 

Time  passed  away,  but  no  anwer  from  Lovell  Court ! 
Lady  Anne  felt  that  she  had  humiliated  herself  in  vain. 
Her  father's  heart  like  her  father's  door,  was  irrevoca- 
bly closed  against  her,  and  she  congratulated  herself 
that  she  had  net  acquainted  Warnford  with  her  meas- 
ures, and  so  procured  hmi  a  share  in  her  disappoint- 
ment. For  Warnford  was  now  a  gloomy-minded,  un- 
yielding  man.  Hard  labor  and  severe  care  had  extin- 
guished the  happier  impulses  of  his  nature.  His  slavery 
had  become  mechanical  to  him,  for  he  saw  that  it  was 
to  be  the  unamending  portion  of  his  life  ;  but  not  even 
the  gentle  companionship  of  his  angelic  wife  could 
bring  smiles  to  his  face,  or  words  of  gladness  to  his 
lip.  His  fatlier's  spirit  Avas  breaking  out  in  him.  He 
had  grown  devout ;  not  with  the  wholesome  piety  of  a 
heart  at  ease,  which  beholds  motive  for  giatitude  in 
even  the  least  of  the  benefits  conferred  by  the  bounty 
of  Providence  ;  but  with  a  sour,  fretful,  fractious  spirit 
of  superstitious  fear  ;  a  peevish  interpreting  of  text5 — > 


NATUIU:  AND  ART.  131 

an  angry  resentment  of  the  triumph  of  the  king  and 
the  church.  With  his  wife  he  was  invariably  irrita- 
ble— with  his  children  tyrannical  and  unjust ;  and 
while  grieving  that  young  Walter  must  grow  up  in 
such  bitter  bondage,  she  rejoiced  that  the  father  knew 
nothing  of  the  emancipation  she  had  premeditated  for 
his  son. 

One  day  when  the  lad  was  assisting  his  father  to- 
cart  slrlngles  from  the  seaward  shore,  and  Mistress 
Warnford  was  busied  in  hanging  out  upon  the  rose- 
mary  bushes  a  web  of  fine  linen,  the  product  of  her 
winter's  spinning,  which  she  had  destined  for  clothing 
the  boy,  had  he  been  called  away  by  liis  grandsire, 
Helena  shouted  from  the  garden  stile  tidings  that  two 
strangers,  richJy  dressed,  were  crossing  the  sands  on 
horseback  guided  by  3'oung  Hob,  the  stable  knave  of 
the  hotel  at  Dalton.  Involuntarily  the  matron  blushed, 
and  drew  closer  round  her  face  the  pinners  which  the 
fcca  breezes  had  blown  away,  as  she  hastened  towards 
the  porch  of  her  humble  home,  to  set  her  house  in  or- 
der  for  the  reception  of  guests  whom  she  suspected  to 
be  on  their  way  to  visit  tiie  Lady  Anne  Lovcll,  not  to 
confer  with  Master  Warnford  of  Helislc  Farm. 

They  came.  They  doffed  their  broad  beavers  cour- 
teously to  the  trembling  woman,  requesting  her  to  an- 
nounce to  her  mistress  that  the  auditor  and  chaplain 
of  the  Farl  of  Lovell  were  under  her  roof;  and  when 
her  exclamation,  "  You  come  to  me  from  my  father  !" 
revealed  the  truth,  they  were  sufficiently  wanting  in 
fact  to  betray  their  amazement  that  the  daughter  of 
their  illustrious  patron  should  be  clothed  in  linsey 
woolsey,  and  have  her  cheeks  swarthy  and  withered 
by  everlasting  exposure  to  the  sun  and  winds  of  that 
shapeless  island. 

Their  errand  w-as  quickly  said.  They  brought  mis. 
sives  from  the  earl,  undertaking  the  charge  of  his  elder 
grand-children,  on  condition  that  they  were  given  up 
to  his  rare,  to  be  bred  as  became  the  future  inheritors 


132  NATURE  AND  ART. 

of  his  fortunes.  His  elder  daughter'^,,  the  Marchior.ess 
of  Saltram,  and  the  Lady  Helena  Mauleverer,  having 
ill  their  turn  incurred  his  displeasure,  he  engaged  to 
make  forthwith  a  handsome  settlement  ou  Walter  and 
Helena  Warnford,  upon  a  renunciation  on  the  part  of 
their  parents  of  all  interference  in  their  future  desti- 
nies. 

Lady  Anne  trembled  as  she  read  ;  not  lest  her  hus. 
bnnd  should  refuse  his  assent  to  the  hmriiliating  pro- 
posal she  had  brought  upon  herself,  but  rather  lest  he 
should  agree  to  part  with  the  children.  It  was  only 
for  her  son  she  had  petitioned.  She  knew  her  own  ca- 
pability to  bestow  upon  her  blooming  Helena  such  ed- 
ucation as  she  held  indispensable  to  an  humble  home- 
staying  woman  ;  and  the  project  of  the  earl  to  deprive 
her  at  once  of  both  her  children,  filled  her  bosom  v/ith 
dismay.  She  would  fain  have  answered  by  a  hasty 
negative,  and  dismissed  the  two  delegates  of  Lord 
Lovell  ere  Warnford  could  be  apprised  of  their  arrival. 
But  this  was  impossible.  Two  horsemen  could  not 
easily  arrive  at  Helisle  unknown  to  the  farmer  ;  and 
accordingly,  after  the  lapse  of  a  fev/  minutes,  "Warn- 
ford, in  his  fustian  suit,  and  wearing  his  stern  looks, 
entered,  and  bade  a  surly  welcome  to  the  strangers. 

To  the  surprise  of  his  wife,  however,  those  looks 
brightened  when  the  object  of  the  mission  came  to 
be  explained.  The  Helisle  outcast  had  that  morning 
discovered  that  he  wks  likely  to  be  a  heavy  loser  by 
the  season's  crops  ;  and  had  received  within  a  few  dayp, 
an  insolent  letter  from  the  attorney  of  his  landlord, 
claiming  arrears  of  rent,  and  threatening  ejection  ; 
and  having  the.se  evil  prospects  before  him  for  his  help- 
less family,  the  offers  vouchsafed  by  Lord  Lovell  came 
like  manna  in  the  wilderness.  It  was  not  a  generous 
sentiment  which  decided  his  grateful  acceptance.  He 
thought  nothing  of  the  ultimate  beaefit  of  his  offspring. 
He  thought  only  of  the  joy  of  deliverance  from  a  pre- 
sent burthen  ;  of  having  fewer    moutlis  to  fill  by  the 


NATURE  AND  ART.  137 

ing  affected  by  the  man  designated  by  Rochester, 
nn-kiiitrliam,  and  Tom  Killegrew,  as  "  the  pompos- 
tcrous  Earl  of  Lovell." 

Harder  iii  his  nature,  and  more  worldly  than  ever, 
Lord  LovcU  hailed  with  delight  tlie  coming  of  the 
stately  marquise,  whose  brceauig  of  Versailles  was  to 
add  new  dignity  to  his  domestic  circle,  and  the  beau- 
tcous  grandchild  who  was  to  breathe  the  rejuvenes- 
cence of  her  eighteen  years  upon  his  withered  exist- 
once.  His  vanity  was  tickled  by  anticipation  of  the 
gay  figure  these  daughters  of  his  line  would  make  in 
tlie  royal  circle  of  Whitehall ;  and  his  malice  gratified 
by  the  notion  of  tlie  envy  with  which  their  elevation 
to  his  favor  must  be  regarded  by  his  two  rebellious 
daughters,  the  Ladies  Saltrarn  and  Mauleverer.  Of 
his  third  daughter,  his  once-loved  Anne,  he  thought  no 
more  than  if  she  liad  been  buried  Jearf  instead  of  alive 
in  the  uliima  thule  of  Ilelisle  !  Morality  extinguished 
by  her  mes-alliancc,  his  lordship  deemed  it  superfluous 
to  inform  himself  whether  she  retained  so  much  as 
physical  existence. 

But  there  was  one  person  at  Lovell  House,  to  whom 
the  arrival  of  the  two  ladies  afforded  anything  but  sat. 
isfaction.  Sir  Walter  Lovell  (for  the  vain  youth  had 
been  knighted  by  the  king  v.hen  oflieiating  as  proxy 
to  the  earl  at  the  installation  of  Knights  of  the  Gar- 
ter) had  long  reigned  supreme  in  the  affections  of  his 
grand-father.  Frivolous,  and  licentious,  the  false  po- 
sition ia  v.-hich  he  was  placed,  by  Lord  Lovell's  per- 
emptory alienation  from  all  natm'al  tics,  had  gradually 
effaced  all  natural  atTcctions  in  his  bosom.  To  love 
the  earl  v.'as  impossible.  His  sister  v/as  banished  to  a 
foreign  country.  His  parents  were  henceforvvai'd  no- 
tliln.g  to  his  tenderness  or  duty.  '  The  world  was  to  be 
all  in  all ;  its  splendors  his  solace — its  favor  his  euf- 
ileicnt  happiness.  The  lessons  of  adversity  were  for- 
Lottcn.  As  the  manners  of  the  young  courtier  softened, 
)iia  heart  grew  hard.     Dissolute  in  his  habits,  his  chief 


138  NATURE  AND  ART. 

anxiety  was  to  keep  from  the  knowledge  of  his  grand- 
father, excesses  of  a  nature  to  be  held  derogatory  by 
the  stately  old  nobleman  ;  and  Sir  Walter  justly  feared 
that  the  establishment  of  female  espionage  at  Lovell 
House  would  be  fatal  to  his  superficial  reputation. 

"  I  kiss  your  hand,  sweet  sister  !"  cried  he,  throw- 
ing himself  Avithout  ceremony  into  a  seat,  in  the 
gorgeous  withdrawing-room,  appointed  to  the  mar- 
chioness's use,  the  day  after  Helena's  arrival  in  her  own 
country.  "  I  was  dining  last  night  with  Muskerry, 
or  should  have  been  at  hand  to  assist  our  lady  aunt 
from  her  coach,  and  tuck  the  chaplain  and  lapdog  un- 
der  either  arm,  to  make  their  solemn  entry  into  Lovell 
House." 

-"  The  latter  duty  you  v^'ould  have  been  spared," 
said  Helena,  smiling  at  his  affectation  of  dress  and 
manner,  which  all  but  rivalled  her  own.  '•  In  place  of 
chaplain  and  lapdog,  the  chere  marquise  travels  with 
a  pair  of  the  prettiest  and  most  adroit  soubrettes  that 
ever  pinned  up  a  fontange,  or  stretched  a  stomacher  ; 
and  neither  Mademoiselle  Peroline,  nor  Mademoiselle 
Celeste,  is  in  the  habit  of  being  "  tucked"  under  the 
arm  of  a  cavalier  so  unlettered  as  to  groan  under  the 
w^eight  of  Alencon  point  after  Easter,  or  to  sport  boots 
of  chamois  leather,  while  Spanish  morocco  is  to  be  for 
money." 

"  r  faith,  well  said  I"  cried  Sir  Walter,  enchanted 
by  the  grace  with  which  the  belle  Parisienne  sat  toss- 
ing a  cassolette  of  perfumes,  affixed  to  her  wrist  by  a 
golden  chain,  which  ever  and  anon  she  caught  in  her 
snow  white  hand,  to  cast  it  lightly  forth  again.  "And 
I  was  wrong  to  talk  of  such  old-world  pets  as  lapdogs 
and  chaplains  to  ladies  of  degree,  who  doubtless  enter- 
tain a  marmoset  and  an  astrologer !  But  tell  me, 
sweet  sister  I  what  is  the  last  news  from  the  Salle  de 
Diane,  and  the  circle  of  its  purest  Diana,  Athenee  de 
Montespan  ?  Is  his  hoiiness's  Bolognese  bull  promul. 
gated  yet  by  the"  cardinal,  and  sanctioned  by  la  hon 


NATURE  ANU  ART.  139 

eompagnie  ?  And  is  it  now  a  leceivod  thing  to  inter- 
sperse breast-knots  of  lilac  on  an  amber-colored  bod- 
ice  ?" 

"  Even  as  you  see,  good  brother,"  replied  Helena ; 
"but  trouble  not  your  fastidious  eyes  with  a  thing  so 
trivial  as  this  my  morning  neglige.  Suspend  3'our 
judgment  until  Thursday  night ;  when,  having  been 
presented  to  her  Majesty  in  her  private  closet,  we  are 
to  appear  at  the  ball  at  court,  and  lo  !  you  shall  behold 
a  certain  robe  of  silver  gauze,  embroidered  on  the 
scams  in  Parma  violets,  whereof  every  eye  hath  an  en- 
crusted topaz,  of  v.hich  even  Lanzan  protested  the 
fashion  to  be  unique,  vrhen  I  danced  in  it,  as  one  of  the 
handmaidens  of  Flora,  in  the  last  royal  ballet  per- 
formed at  St.  Cloud." 

"  Silver  gauze  is  altogether  cittish  and  tawdry,"  said 
Sir  Waller,  disdainfully.  "  Gauze  of  silk  or  thread  is 
your  only  wear.  I  protest  to  you,  ma  mignonne,  that 
cloth  of  gold  or  silver  is  obsolete  and  unseasonable  for 
this  merry  monlli  of  May." 

*«  Obsolete  1"  cried  the  young  beauty  with  rising 
bloom  :  "  how  Idng,  pray,  has  Scythian  London  pre- 
sumed to  affect  principles  of  its  own  upon  such  sub- 
jects ?  Have  we  Parisians  so  liberally  supplied  you 
with  tailors,  embroiderers,  and  bulletins  of  fashion,  in 
the  overflov.-jng  of  our  goodness  and  frippery,  that  you 
end  by  setting  up  as  dictators  on  your  own  account? 
Ah  !  Content  yourselves — worthy  fog-bewildered 
souls  as  ye  are — with  legislating  in  musty  parliaments^ 
long-robod  courts  of  justice,  but  presume  not  (as  Eliza- 
beth said  m  her  haste  to  her  senate)  to  meddle  with 
matters  beyond  your  roach.  /  maintain  that  gauze  of 
silver  is  fitting  wear  for  a  ball-room,  even  were  the 
dog-star  ranging.  But  here  comes  the  marchioness, 
tottering  under  the  weight  of  her  ronge  faux  toupet — 
a  salute  on  cither  cheek,  if  you  love  yourself  my  gentle 
brother.  To  kiss  her  finger-tip,  as  you  did  mine,  would 
pass  for  most  unnephew-like  eang  froid" 


140  NATURE  AND  ART. 

"  My  dear  soul,  how  is  this  ?"  cried  Madame  de  Cas- 
tries,  having  courteously  accepted  from  Sir  Walter  the 
gallant  embrace  suggested  by  her  neice.  "  What  is  it 
I  hear— that  my  brother  has  neither  evening  set  apart 
for  the  reception  of  society ;  nor  groom-porter,  nor 
pharo-bank, -nor  ombro,  nor  basset,  nor  anything  usual 
or  decorous,  established  in  the  house  ?  What  means 
such  strange  irregularity  in  an  establishment  of  so 
much  note  and  splendor  ?  and  what  does  he  intend  us 
to  do  with  ourselves  when  there  is  nothing  going  on  at 
court,  and  neitlier  ball  nor  masquerade  in  question? 
Does  he  expect  us  to  mew  ourselves  up  with  him  of  an 
evening  in  this  state-prison,  to  the  light  of  half  a  dozen 
sconces,  and  perhaps  the  tune  of  a  couple  of  fiddles, 
lullabying  one  to  sleep,  '  Damon,  god  of  my  affection,' 
or  some  other  playhouse  ditty  ?" 

"  Doubtless,  my  dear  madam,"  replied  Sir  Walter, 
having  led  her  to  a  chair,  "  ray  grandfather  will  accede 
to  all  your  reasonable  desires.  Hitherto  his  household 
hath  been  neglected :  his  office  detaining  him  chiefly 
near  the  king,  and  my  own  naturally  studious  and  re- 
tiring disposition  having  engaged  me  in  literary  and 
scientific  society,  whence  such  toys  as  cards  and  dice 
are  necessarily  banished." 

"  I  cannot  live  without  my  hocca,"  cried  the  mar- 
chioness, taking  a  long  pinch  ofrapee  from  a  glittering 
box,  enamelled  with  a  portrait  of  her  friend  St.  Evre- 
mont,  having  a  stanza  from  Voiture  engraven  on  the 
golden  reverse.  "  To  sleep  without  the  incentive  of 
my  nightly  game  is  as  impossibleas  to  wake  without  the 
excitement  of  my  morning  coffee.  See  to  this  for  me, 
Walter  ;  consult  the  Chevalier  Hamilton  and  the  few 
other  civilized  beings  you  have  got  among  you — make 
me  up  a  little  coterie,  to  wean  me  gradually  from  the 
cream  of  luxurious  Paris  down  to  the  skim-milk  of 
splenetic  London  ! — conversation,  taste,  or  elegance, 
we  do  not  look  for  from  you ;  but,  in  pity  to  two  for- 
lorn females,  give  us  that  which  even  blockheads  can 


XATUUE  A^'B  ART.  141 

provide,  a  pack  of  cards  and  a  tolerable  cup  of  Mo- 
cha." 

Thus  adjured,  Sir  Walter  decided  that  it  would  be 
more  prudent  to  seek  a  confederate  in  the  marchioness 
than  to  out-general  her  manojuvres.  He  promised, 
therefore,  to  do  his  best  for  her  ladyship's  enlivenmcnt ; 
and  Lord  Lovell  was  induced  to  endure,  as  the  avowed 
guests  of  his  sister,  the  society  of  the  profligate  com- 
])anions  of  his  nephew.  Assured  by  the  marchioness 
that  high  play  was  one  of  the  vices  de  hon  Ion  monop- 
olized by  \\\o  grand  monarque  for  the  delectation  of  his 
court,  the  earl  submitted  to  see  a  bank  established  in 
the  grand  gallery  of  Lovell  House,  illuminated  twice  a 
week  for  the  reception  of  visiters  ;  and  there,  as  a  pre- 
text for  quaffing  Spanish  wines  with  the  gay  and 
brilliant  Sir  Walter  Lovell,  and  bandying  light  retorts 
with  his  beautiful  sister,  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
Beau  Fielding,  Jermyn,  Count  Flamilton,  and  other 
leading  fashionists  and  wits  of  the  day,  consented  to 
sacrifice  their  patience  to  the  tedious  patter  of  the  old 
earl,  and  a  few  gold  pieces  to  the  insatiable  love  of 
play  of  the  Marchioness  de  Castries.  It  became  one  of 
the  best  frequented  mansions  in  London  ;  and  Charles 
himself,  .sometimes  laughingly  deplored  the  etiquette 
which  forbade  him  to  become  a  lounger  in  the  gay  sa- 
loons of  his  lord  chamberlain. 

But  the  fair  Helena  had  not  been  educated  in  Paris 
to  so  little  purpose  as  to  imagine  that  the  brilliant 
homage  of  these  libertines  of  fashion  was  the  one  thing 
needful.  Her  grandfather  had  promised  her  a  noble 
fortune  ;  but  not  even  the  broad  lands  he  was  to  be- 
queath her  would  obliterate  at  the  court  of  a  Stuart, 
the  shame  of  ignoble  and  roundhead  descent.  The  Iri- 
umphs  of  the  new  comer,  in  her  robe  of  silver  gauze 
and  Parma  violets,,  had  excited  universal  indignation 
among  the  maids  of  honor,  both  of  the  queen  and  the 
duchess.  Who  was  this  Miss  Lovell  that  smiled  so  in- 
solently as  she  walked  a  minuet  with  the  young  Duko 
12 


142  NATURE  AND  ART. 

of  Monmouth,  after  fixing  the  admiring  attention  of 
Grammont  and  all  his  satellites  ? — an  impostor  I  The 
offspringof  a  J'ciMrier,  whose  real  name  wag  besprinkled 
with  the  mire  of  the  commonwealth.  The  whisper 
went  round.  Helena's  eyes  sparkled  with  indignation. 
"  They  should  repent  the  ignominy  cast  upon  her. — 
She  would  soar  above  them,  and  surprise  them  yet." 
Already  the  Earl  of  St.  Albans  was  among  her  reject, 
ed  suitors.  She  had  set  her  heart — (her  heart) — upon 
a  duke  I  The  laurels  wherewith  she  would  fain  be 
crowned  were  strawberry  leaves ;  and  it  was  after 
forming  this  resolution  (while  apparently  devoting  her 
attention  to  the  beauty  of  a  pair  of  cats  of  cracked 
porcelain,  gracing  the  marchioness's  chimney  piece,) 
that  his  young  grace  of  Glamorgan  was  invited  by  Ma- 
dame de  Castries  to  become  her  pupil  in  the  mysteries 
of  basset.  Lord  Lovell  was  satisfied  that  the  duke 
visited  so  assiduously  at  his  house,  in  compliment  to 
himself — the  venerable  friend  of  his  grandsire.  Sir 
Walter  found  that  the  youth  was  ambitious  of  forming 
himself  in  his  ecole  des  bonnes  manieres.  The  mar- 
chioness  decided  that  he  came  there  to  pay  his  compli- 
ments to  her  snuff-box,  and  the  four  aces.  But  Helena 
was  equally  positive  that,  whatever  the  Duke  of  Gla- 
morgan  might  come  to  seelc  at  Lovell  House,  he  should 
find  nothing  less  important  than  a  duchess.  He  was 
a  gentle,  ingenuous  youth  ;  and  fearing  to  alarm  him 
by  a  display  of  her  Parisian  levities,  she  gave  up  co. 
quetting  with  Harry  Jermyn,  and  bandying  witticisms 
with  Rochester,  to  edify  the  world  of  fashion  by  the 
strict  decorum  of  her  maidenly  resolve. 

While  these  glittering  pageants  were  enacting  in 
the  vicinity  of  Whitehall,  the  desolation  of  Helisle 
waxed  gloomier  and  yet  more  gloomy.  Warnford's 
reason  was  now  completely  disordered.  It  was  only 
by  following  him  incessantly,  in  his  wanderings,  that 
his  matchless  wife  prevented  him  from  becoming  the 
victim  of  his  delusion.     Often  did   he  rush  forth  upon 


NATURE  AND   ART.  143 

the  sands  when  the  tides  were  rolHng  in  upon  a  win- 
ter's night ;  and  amid  the  bellowing  of  the  storm,  and 
the  frightful  violence  of  the  night  winds,  command  the 
waves  to  recede,  in  confirmation  of  his  faith  ;  nor  could 
an}'  thing  but  the  persuasive  caresses  of  his  wife,  (her 
voice  being  inaudible  among  the  tumults  of  the  scene,) 
induce  him  to  seek  shelter  at  home  from  the  inclemen- 
cies  of  the  weather.  At  other  times  she  would  follow 
him  to  Dalton,  and  from  Ualton  pursue  her  weary  way 
to  the  mountains  of  Black  Comb  or  Langdalc,  and 
while  he  wandered  frantic  among  the  ravines  and  re- 
cesses of  the  hills,  attend  his  steps  with  bleeding  feet 
and  panting  bosom,  clinging  to  him  protectingly  when 
she  saw  him  about  to  precipitate  himself  from  some 
frightful  precipice,  as  an  ordeal  of  the  protection  of 
the  Almighty. 

But,  alas  I  during  these  frequent  absences^frorn  home, 
her  gentle  Lucy  was  left  alone  with  a  boorish  servant 
on  the  solitary  islet  ;  and  this  necessity  was,  of  all  her 
trials,  the  most  painful  to  Mistress  Warnford. 

"  Not  unto  me  should  this  duty  lia\c  been  appoint- 
ed  !"  did  she  more  than  once  murmur  while  following 
the  wanderings  of  the  demented  man  through  storm 
and  xbrd,  among  perilous  morasses,  or  shelving  rocks. 
"  It  is  his  son,  with  a  strong  arm  to  restrain,  and  a 
strong  voice  to  overmaster  the  paroxysms  of  his  fear- 
ful madness." 

But  there  was  no  son  at  hand  to  relieve  her  painful 
efforts  by  the  sacrifice  of  his  filial  duty.  Walter  Warn- 
ford had  ceased  to  exist ;  for  the  Sir  Walter  Lovcll, 
in  whom  his  existence  was  merged,  was  a  vain  volup- 
tuary, who  would  have  pished  and  pshawed  at  the 
mere  mention  of  his  absent  parents,  and  their  misfor- 
tunes. 

"  I  have  been  pestered  with  a  strange  letter  this 
morning ;"  said  Helena  to  her  brother,  producing  one 
day  at  arm's  length  a  clumsy  packet,  by  mere  contact 
with  which  she  seemed   to  think  herself  dishonored. 


144  NATUHi:  AND  ART. 

"  Did  you  know  that  those  people  in  \he  north  were 
still  alive  ?  jMy  aunt  informed  me  at  Paris,  (on  my 
inquiry  about  them  on  some  occasion  or  other,)  that 
they  were  all  swept  away  by  an  inundation — a  confla- 
gration — or  the  Heavens  know  what." 

"  Leave  that  knowledge  to  the  Heavens,  then,  my 
pretty  Helena,"  drawled  8ir  Walter  ;  "  for  it  is  writ- 
ten in  black  and  white,  that  we  are  cither  to  know  no 
parents  or  know  no  grandsire  ;  and  I  have  a  notion 
that  our  elderly  gentleman  with  a  rent-roll  of  sixty 
thousand  per  annum,  is  the  acquaintance  worth  pre- 
serving of  the  two." 

"  Tlie  more  so,  that  our  aunts,  Saltram  and  Maul- 
everer,  have  lately  been  attacking  the  earl  on  his  weak 
side,  per  favor  of  his  ghostly  comforter,  Father  O'Ma- 
hony,"  observed  Helena. 

"  And  what  says  yonder  inopportune  letter  ?"  de. 
nianded  her  brother,  setting  his  ruffles. 

"  Many  things  unseemly  to  repeat.  'Tis  v/rit  by 
little  Lucy,  (the  child,  though  grown  into  a  v/oman,  is 
endowed  apparcnLly  with  scarce  instruction  or  breed- 
ing for  a  cambermaid,)  who  informs  me  that  her  fa- 
ther is  a  lunatic,  and  her  mother,  it  would  seem, 
scarcely  more  rational — since  she  trudges  after  him 
up  and  down,  like  an  esquire  of  the  body,  leaving  her 
young  daughter  to  be  devoured  by  rats  and  mice,  and 
such  small  deer,  but  lacking  nourishment  of  her  own. 
In  short,  they  are  all  crazy,  and  all  starving.  What  is 
to  be  done  ?" 

"  Nothing !  The  smallest  intercourse  would  be  fol- 
lowed by  our  expulsion  from  the  favor  of  the  Earl. 
Such,  since  I  attained  years  of  discretion,  hath  been 
the  reiterated  lesson  of  old  Rickatts,  who  stands  so 
much  our  friend." 

"  'Tis  a  most  misjudging  thing  of  this  young  girl  to 
have  placed  me  in  so  sore  a  strait,"  observed  Helena, 
tearing  to  pieces  a  rose,  the  gift  of  the  Duke  of  Gla- 


xNATUKli  A.ND  AKT.  145 

iMorgau,  which  she  had  taken  Irom  her  busoin.  "  ilow 
am  I  to  answer  her  letter  ?" 

"  Take  no  note  of  it,  child — as  I  do  by  those  of  my 
unruly  creditors.  'T  would  be  an  encouragement  to 
importunity  were  such  applications  favored  with  an 
answer.  Miss  Lucy  will  conclude  that  her  petitioi\ 
miscarried,  and  we  shall  be  troubled  no  more  with  her 
importunities." 

Lucy  did  conclude  so ;  for,  to  her  young  heart,  the 
monstrous  idea  of  filial  ingratitude  had  never  present- 
ed itself.  She  pictured  to  herself  her  beautiful  sister, 
shining  like  a  star  in  courtly  resorts,  and  revelling  in 
the  luxuries  of  life — she  pictured  to  herself  her  brave 
brother,  connnanding  the  respect  of  society  by  the  ex. 
ercise  of  every  manly  virtue  ;  (for,  blest  as  both  had 
been  with  the  enlightenment  of  education,  how  could 
they  be  otherwise  than  high-minded  and  virtuous  ?) 
and  could  not  refrain  from  conjecturing  what  would 
be  their  anguish,  could  they  dream,  that  while  they 
v.-rre  pampered  with  the  sweets  of  life,  want  was  in 
the  dwelling  of  their  parents  I 

For  want  was  there  indeed  !  The  fields  of  Helisle 
lay  uncultured,  the  fences  brokcji,  the  garden-ground 
a  waste  I  Xot  a  head  of  cattle — not  a  sheep — not  a 
living  thing  in  the  ruinous  sheds — not  a  handful  of  meal 
— not  a  root —  to  yield  nourishment  to  the  misera'jle 
family.  For  some  time  the  neighbors  were  generous, 
and  administered  to  their  necessity.  But  the  "demand 
came  too  often.  The  season  was  a  bad  one,  and  there 
was  a  famine  generally  upon  the  land.  Winter  was 
comiiig  on  severely;  fuel  was  unattainable.  Mistress 
Warnlbrd  had  shaped  her  own  warm  clothing  into 
garments  for  the  lunatic ;  while,  one  by  one,  Lucy  in- 
sinuaied  her  vestments  into  her  mother's  hoard  ;  and 
with  blue  lips,  and  wasted,  shivering  arms,  protested 
when  charged  by  the  tender  woman  with  her  good 
deed,  that  she  could  not  work  while  encumbered  with 
winter  covering.  The  poor  girl  grew  weaker  and 
12* 


146  NATURE  AND  ART. 

weaker  ;  yet  every  day  she  went  forth  on  pretext  of 
rural  labor,  though  there  was  neither  stock  nor  crop  to 
exact  her  cares ;  she  only  wished  to  hide  from  her 
mother  the  wanness  and  sadness  of  her  hungry  face. 

Yet,  even  in  that  depth  of  misery,  the  mother  bore 
all  with  resignation.  Her  faltering  voice  had  3'et 
strength  to  talk  of  better  days  in  store ;  her  languid 
eye  to  look  forward  to  some  remote  epoch  of  worldly 
felicity,  when  her  absent  children  were  to  be  restored 
to  her,  and  all  was  to  be  well. 

"  Heaven  is  merciful,"  was  her  constant  exhortation 
to  the  gentle  girl,  who  brought  water  to  lave  her  bruised 
feet  when  she  returned  froin  her  painful  wanderings — 
and  water  was  the  only  offering  that  remained  to  Lucy 
as  a  token  to  her  parents.  "  '  Heaviness  may  endure 
for  a  night,  but  joy  cometh  in  the  m.orning.'  When 
your  brother  comes  into  possession  of  his  independence, 
will  it  not  be  his  fii'st  thought  to  fly  to  our  relief? 
And  what  delight,  to  be  rewarded  for  my  past  miseries, 
clasped  in  the  arms  of  my  lovely  Helena,  and  beholding 
thee,  my  duteous  child — my  youngest  born — my  best 
beloved — walking  at  length  in  the  sunshine  of  pros, 
perity !" 

But  while  talking  thus  wixh  parched  but  patient  lips 
of  the  sun-shine  of  prosperity,  "  a  hopeless  darkness 
settled  o'er  her  fate."  The  miserable  man,  whose  in- 
sanity  had  recently  taken  a  furious  turn,  (the  result  of 
wretchedness,  witnessed  and  shared,)  was  one  day  mis- 
sing  from  the  chamber  Avhere  he  v/as  accustomed  to 
lie,  and  howl  away  the  intervals  of  his  more  restless 
paroxysms ;  and  his  wife,  girding  on  her  tattered  rai- 
ments, prepared  herself,  as  usual,  to  cross  to  the  main- 
land, and  inquiring  the  direction  of  his  course,  follow 
and  follow  through  the  pitiless  storm,  till  some  lucid 
interval  enabled  him  to  recognise  her  voice,  and  to  re- 
turn with  her  to  their  destitute  abode.  But,  lo,  as  she 
was  about  to  go  forth,  Lucy  met  her  upon  the  thresh- 
old, and  in  silence  prevented  her  departure.     It  was 


NATURE  AND  ART.  147 

in  vain  that  Mistress  Warnford  remonstrated  or  ques- 
tioned. Lucy  could  reply  only  by  the  tenderest  ca- 
rcsscs — by  clasping  her  mother's  hand — by  imprinting 
kisses  on  her  mother's  cheek;  till  after  some  time,  she 
gathered  courage  to  lead  her  to  I  he  spot  where  lay  the 
dead  and  disfigured  body  of  the  maniac. 

For  a  single  moment  the  widow  beheld  in  him  once 
more  the  lover  of  her  youth,  and  wrung  her  hands  in 
anguish.  But  better  thoughts  succeeded.  The  suf- 
ferer had  gone  to  his  rest  ;  though  he  had  perished  by 
his  own  hand,  his  \-.-ill  was  guiltless  of  the  deed  ;  and 
the  poor  friendless  woman  had  still  fortitude  to  ex- 
claim, "  The  will  of  God  be  done  !"  She  remained 
alone  with  the  dead  while  the  weeping  Lucy  went  her 
way  to  the  mainland,  and  brought  back  those  who, 
with  sore  grumbling  at  the  interruption,  dug  a  grave 
in  the  deserted  island  for  the  mangled  remains. of  the 
unhappy  Warnford ! 

To  abide  longer  on  that  calamitous  spot,  the  two 
helpless  women  felt  to  be  impossible.  Gathering  to- 
gether the  scanty  remnant  of  their  property,  they  set 
forth  to  beg  their  way  to  London.  A  charitable  friend 
at  Dalton  gave  them  shelter  on  that  first  homeless 
night ;  and  even  at  that  desolate  moment,  the  poor 
widow  felt,  as  she  wept  upon  the  head  of  her  loving 
and  lovely  child,  that  a  treasure  was  hers  in  the  affec- 
tions of  her  devoted  Lucy,  that  counterbalanced  the 
evils  of  her  lot. 

Weeks  of  patient  perseverance  conveyed  them  to 
the  capital.  But,  alas  I  they  arrived  at  a  moment  dis- 
astrous as  the  history  of  their  own  destinies  I  The 
plague  had  broken  out,  and  high  and  low  were  flying 
from  the  infected  city.  When  at  last  the  miserable  wan- 
derers made  their  way  to  the  stately  portal  •f  Lovell 
House,  a  train  of  coaches  was  at  the  door  to  convey 
the  family  in  haste  into  Oxfordshire.  The  postillions 
were  cracking  their  whips,  lackeys  uncovered  stood 
thronging  the  door-stops,  lining  the  way  for  the  mar- 


148  KATUKE  AInD  ARl. 

chiouess  and  her  fair  niece  to  reach  the  equipage  ;  and 
when  Helena,  radiant  with  beauty,  issued  from  the 
gate,  her  mother  burst  through  the  restraining  throng, 
and  flung  herself  at  the  feet  of  her  bright  and  prosper. 
ous  child,  with  sobs  of  ecstacy  and  love. 

"  Take  her  away — take  her  away  I — 't  is  some  poor 
infected  wretch,"  cried  Miss  Lovell,  recoiling  with  a 
piercing  shriek  from  her  approach. 

"  No,  no  I"  faltered  the  seemmg  mendicant ;  "I 
bring  thee  no  evil — I  would  die  sooner  than  bring  thee 
evil.  I  am  thy  mother,  Helena — thy  loving,  misera- 
ble  mother  I" 

Another  shriek  betrayed  the  consternation  of  the 
young  lady,  to  whom  the  terms  of  this  address  were 
wholly  inaudible,  but  who  fancied  she  beheld  a  plague- 
stricken  beggar  clinging  to  her  feet.  But  Sir  Walter, 
who  stood  inspecting  the  packing. of  his  travelling-cha- 
riot, had  caught  sufficient  insight  into  the  matter  to 
feel  that  the  results  of  this  vexatious  scene  might  be 
fatal  to  his  prospects  in  life,  surrounded  as  they  were 
by  household  spies,  by  idlers,  and  above  all,  in  presence 
of  the  Duke  of  Glamorgan,  who  was  come  to  take  a 
hasty  farewell  of  Helena,  ere  he  rejoined  the  family  at 
Lovell  Court.  Rumors  of  the  strange  incident  would 
be  sure  to  reach  the  ears  of  the  earl  who  had  preceded 
them  a  few  hours,  upon  the  road.  He  felt  persuaded 
that  Lord  Lovell  would  not  fail  to  resent  upon  his 
grandchildren  so  indecent  an  intrusion,  unless  they 
promptly  marked  their  disavowal  of  the  measure. — 
"  Drive  the  woman  hence,"  cried  he,  to  the  herd  of 
lackeys  around  him.  '•  Would  you  see  the  life  of  your 
young  lady  periled  before  your  cowardly  faces?" 

"  Walter  !  my  own  brave,  beautiful,  noble  Walter  !" 
faltered  the  half-fainting  woman — "I  die  content  to 
have  lookisd  upon  your  face  once  more.  W^ alter  !  my 
sweet  Walter,  have  pity  1  It  is  your  mother  who  is 
grovelling  at  your  feet !" 


NATURE  AND  ART.  149 

"  Away  witli  her  !"  cried  young  Lovell,  deaf  to  those 
tender  worcis,  which  were  drowned  in  the  stir  and  tu- 
mult of  departure  ;  and  while  Helena  stepped  into  her 
gilded  coach,  a  servant  in  the  Lovell  livery  seized  the 
helpless  woman,  who  had  sunk  upon  the  doorrSteps, 
and  flung  her  ujion  a  stone-bench  fronting  the  opposite 
wall  of  the  court. 

"  Farewell,"  cried  Helena,  kissing  her  hand  to  the 
young  duke,  as  her  heavy  vehicle  was  dragged  forth 
through  the  gate-way  by  six  equally  cumbrous  Flan- 
ders marcs. 

"  Farewell,  my  dear  Glam  ! — au  revoir .'"  adc'ed  her 
brother,  gaining  his  own  gay  carriage  and  folio  .ving 
the  van.  "To-morrow,  by  dinner  time,  at  Lovell 
Court." 

And  away  went  the  gaudy  train  of  servants  and  out- 
riders ;  and  away  the  mob  of  idlers  collected  to  gaze 
upon  their  bravery.  No  one  remained  in  the  place  but 
the  decrcpid  porter,  yawning  on  the  steps  of  Lovell 
House,  the  young  Duke  of  Glamorgan  about  to  re- 
mount his  horse  and  ride  homewards  preparatory  to 
his  departure  from  town  ;  the  body  of  the  beggar  on 
the  bench,  beside  which  a  miserable  girl  was  now 
kneeling  ;  and  the  all-seeing  eye  of  Providence  watch- 
ful over  all.  The  auburn  curls  fell  scattered  round 
Lucy's  beautiful  face  as  she  took  the  bonnet  from  her 
head,  to  fan  the  insensible  mother,  who  lay  there  as  at 
the  point  of  death  ;  and  the  eyes  of  the  young  duke 
were  attracted  by  its  matchless  loveliness. 

"  Can  I  t!o  any  thing  to  assist  you  ?"  said  he,  in  a 
gentle  voice,  approaching  the  agonized  Lucy. 

"  A  cup  of  water — in  charity  procure  me  a  cup  of 
water  I"  cried  she. 

-\t  the  req\iest  of  the  duke,  both  water  and  -.vire 
were  hastily  brought  forth  by  the  old  porter  of  Lord 
Lovell's  house  for  the  wayfarer's  relief.  After  some 
minutes  the  sufferer  unclosed  her  eves. 


150  KATUEE  XKD  ART. 

*'  My  children  !"  was  her  first  exclamation ;  "  where 

are  my  children  ?"  Then  recalling  to  mind  what  had 
occurred,  she  added  mournfully,  pressing  the  hand  of 
Lucy  to  her  lips,  "bat,  no  I  there  is  only  one  child  left 
me  now,  the  dearest  and  the  best  of  daughters  !" 

"  You  had  better  enter  the  house,  my  good  woman, 
and  rest  a  little,"  said  the  old  porter,  condescendingly, 
to  the  tramper,  patronized  by  a  duke.  "  You  are  wel- 
come  to  the  use  of  my  chair  I" 

While  Glamorgan  kindly  added,  "  x\y,  hie  into  Lord 
Lovell's  house  and  rest  awhile — hie  into  Lord  Lovell's 
house !" 

"  Steal  like  a  thief  and  an  outcast  into  my  fathers's 
house  1"  exclaimed  the  almost  distracted  woman.  "  No, 
no  I  I  should  then  deserve  the  cruel  iudignities  heaped 
upon  me.  Renounced  by  my  father,  spurned  by  my 
ungrateful  children,  I  can  go  and  die  elsewhere." 

But  though  these  ejaculations  remained  incompre- 
hensible  to  his  Grace,  Ralph,  the  old  family  porter,  to 
whom  the  history  of  Lady  Anne  was  familiar,  and  who 
knew  the  interdiction  placed  by  the  earl  upon  all  in- 
tercourse  between  his  daughter  and  her  children,  be. 
gan  to  entertain  suspicions  of  the  truth ;  and  tears 
gushed  from  the  poor  man's  eyes,  as  he  exclaimed — 
"  My  lady  !  my  honored  lady  I  my  sweet  young  Lady 
Anne  I  and  1  not  to  recognise  her  in  all  this  misery 
and  shame  1" 

Rapid  as  were  the  explanations  bestowed  by  old 
Ralph  on  the  noble  spectator  of  the  affecting  scene 
that  followed,  they  sufficed  to  rouse  his  utmost  sym. 
pathy  and  indignation.  His  very  utterance  failed  him 
on  learning  that  he  beheld,  in  the  victims  of  destitu- 
tion before  him,  the  daughter  and  the  grand-daughter 
of  the  Earl  of  Lovell — the  mother  and  sister  of  Hole- 
na.  It  was  to  his  own  roof  that  he  now  insisted  upon 
her  being  removed  ;  and  when,  as  they  were  accom- 
panying him  from  the  spot,  there  arrived  a  servant  on 


Nature  and  art.  151 

horseback,  despatched  back  by  Sir  Walter  Lovell,  to 
have  a  cam  of  the  two  beggars  whom  he  had  left  at 
the  gates  of  Lovell  House,  the  duke  commanded  ihe 
man  to  bear  back  word  to  his  friend,  that  "  henceforth 
his  deserted  mother  and  sister  abided  under  the  proLec- 
tion  of  the  Duke  of  Glamorgan." 

Such  an  intimation  naturally  apprized  Helena  that 
all  hope  was  lost  to  her  of  securing  the  hand  of  her  no. 
ble  admirer.  Bu^.  it  did  not  forewarn  her  of  ihe  still 
more  unw3!come  fact,  that,  afier  a  fow  weeks'  intima. 
cy,  his  affjc.ions  were  to  be  iraasferred  to  her  fair  and 
artless  sister,  whose  virtues  gradually  confirmed  the 
conquest  her  beauiy  had  begun. 

The  Earl  of  Lovell,  meanwhile,  who  had  carried 
with  him  from  London  the  germs  of  the  prevailing 
epidemic,  fell  a  victim  to  that  frightful  disease  ;  nor 
did  it  surprise  the  world  that  a  will,  executed  by  the 
wayward  man  in  his  last  moments,  disinheriting  his 
grandson,  secured  the  whole  of  his  vast  property  to  the 
daughter  of  his  daughter  Anne,  on  the  day  of  her  be- 
coming  the  Duchess  of  Glamorgan. 

'•  Bat  what  then  will  become  of  my  grandfather's 
fortune  ?"  inquired  Lucy,  when  apprised  by  her  moth, 
er's  3'outhful  benefactor,  of  the  singular  terms  of  the 
bequest.     "Surely  the  legacy  will  never  take  effect." 

"  That,  dearest,  must  depend  upon  yourself,"  was 
his  fervent  reply.  "  By  becommg  Duchess  of  Glamor- 
gan,  Lucy  Warnford,  the  daughter  of  the  Lady  Anne 
Lovell,  will  not  only  render  me  the  happiest  and  proud- 
est of  men,  but  be  enabled  to  confer  peace  and  inde- 
pendence on  the  best  of  mothers;  and  exemplify  to  the 
world  the  comparative  influence  upon  the  human  cha- 
racter  and  destinies,  of  the  schools  of — Natcre  and 
Art." 


152 

©n©i!Ki©i>o^Kiirffii][EKi'[ra 

BY  MISS  L.  E.  LANDON. 

Do  not  ask  me  why  I  loved  him, 

Love's  cause  is  to  love  unknown  5 
Faithless  as  the  past  has  prov^  him, 

Once  his  heart' appeared  mine  own. 
Do  not  say  he  did  not  merit 

All  my  fondness,  all  my  truth  : 
Those  in  whom  Love  dwells,  inherit 

Every  dream  that  haunted  youth. 

He  might  not  be  all  I  dreamed  him» 

Noble,  generous,  gifted,  true. 
Not  the  less  I  fondly  deemed  him, 

All  those  flattering  visions  drew. 
All  the  hues  of  old  romances 

By  his  actual  self  grew  dim  ; 
Bitterly  I  mock  tlie  fancies 

That  once  found  their  life  in  him. 

From  the  hour  by  him  enchanted, 

From  ihe  moment  when  we  met, 
Henceforth  with  one  image  haunted. 

Life  may  never  more  forget. 
All  my  nature  changed — his  being 

Seemed  the  only  source  of  mine. 
Fond  heart,  hadst  thou  no  foreseeing 

Thy  sad  future  to  divine  ? 

Once,  upon  myself  relying, 

All  I  asked  were  words  and  thought 
Many  hearts  to  mine  replying, 

Owned  the  music  that  I  brought, 


DISENCHANTMENT.  153 

Eaffcr,  spiritual,  and  lonel)% 

Visions  filled  the  fairy  hour, 
Deep  with  love — though  love  was  only 

Not  a  pretence,  but  a  power. 

But  from  that  first  hour  I  met  thee, 

All  caught  actual  life  from  you. 
Alas  I  how  can  I  forget  thcc, 

Thou  who  mad'st  the  fancied  true  ? 
Once  my  wide  world  was  ideal, 

Fair  it  was — ah  I  very  fair  ; 
Wherefore  hast  thou  made  it  real  ? 

Wherefore  is  thy  image  there  ? 

Ah  I  no  more  to  mc  is  given 

Fancy's  far  and  fairy  birth  ; 
Chords  upon  my  lute  arc  riven, 

Never  more  to  sound  on  earth. 
Once,  sweet  music  could  it  borrow 

From  a  look,  a  word,  a  tone ; 
I  could  paint  another's  sorrow — 

Now  I  think  but  of  mine  own. 

Life's  dark  waves  have  lost  the  glitter 

Wnich  at  morning-tide  they  wore, 
And  the  well  within  is  bitter, 

Nouglit  its  sweetness  may  restore  ; 
For  I  knovv^  how  vainly  given 

Life's  most  precious  things  may  be, 
Love  that  might  have  looked  on  heaven, 

Even  as  it  looked  on  thee. 

Ah,  farewell  I — with  that  word  dying, 

Hope  and  love  must  perish  too. 
For  tliy  sake  themselves  denying. 

What  is  truth  with  thcc  untrue  ? 
I'd 


154  THE  E:\'CL0SED  COI\iMO.\. 

Farewell  I — 't  is  a  dreary  sentence, 
Like  the  death-doom  of  the  grave, 

May  it  wake  in  thee  repentance, 
Stinging  when  too  late  to  save  I 


BY  MRS.  ABDY. 

I  STOOD  and  gazed  from  the  breezy  height, 
The  scene  was  fair  in  the  morning  light. 
And  I  cast  my  joyous  glance  around 
On  a  grassy  track  of  smiling  ground  ; 
The  silvery  stream  ran  clear  and  cold. 
The  broom  looked  gay  with  its  flowers  of  gold, 
In  each  path  the  clustering  wild-rose  smiled, 
And  the  purple  thyme  grew  thick  and  wild. 

There,  blooming  children  in  playful  glee, 
Gathered  white  wreaths  from  the  hawthorn  tree 
There,  w^earied  peasants,  their  labors  done. 
Watched  the  rich  rays  of  the  setting  sun  ; 
And  the  fevered  slaves  of  Mammon's  toil, 
There  rested  from  anxious  strife  awhile, 
And  seemed  new  vigor,  new  life  to  breathe. 
From  the  fragrant  air  of  the  open  heath. 

Again  I  stood  on  the  breezy  height, 
But  an  altered  prospect  met  my  sight ; 
Where  flowers  had  blushed  in  their  varied  hue. 
The  smoke  of  the  brick-field  rose  to  viev/  ; 
And  I  gazed  on  formal  and  measured  roads, 
And  on  crowded,  comfortless  abodes. 
And  found  no  trace  of  the  birds  and  bowers, 
That  had  lent  a  charm  to  my  childish  houi's. 


THE  ENCLOSED  COIMMON.  155 

"Oh!  why,"  I  sifrhed,  in  my  deep  distress, 

"  Must  the  grasping  spirit  of  worldliness, 

A  scene  so  fair  and  so  free  profane, 

For  the  sordid  purposes  of  gain  ? 

Must  traffic  spread  o'er  the  world  its  ban, 

And  cannot  the  selfish  hand  of  man 

P^orbear  to  seize  on  one  spot  of  sod, 

Thus  brightly  decked  by  the  hand  of  God  ?'* 

I  spoke,  wlicn  a  voice  distinct  and  clear. 
Appeared  to  fall  on  my  listening  ear — 
"  Thou  mournest  the  loss  of  this  pleasant  range, 
May'st  thou  not  mourn  for  a  greater  change  I 
Long  hast  thou  roamed  in  the  world's  vain  mart, 
Has  it  wrought  no  work  on  thine  own  weak  heart  ; 
Is  it  still  as  simple,  as  wild,  as  free, 
As  in  former  days  it  was  wont  to  be  ? 


"  When  a  child  thou  wert  sporting  gladly  here. 
Thou  did'st  not  wish  for  a  busier  sphere. 
Bounding  the  flowery  paths  along, 
And  blithly  singing  some  mirthful  song ; 
Glad  thoughts,  bright  visions,  blessed  thy  mind. 
Thou  wert  full  of  love  for  all  mankind. 
Thy  smile  was  beaming,  and  clear  thy  brow, 
Such  wert  thou  then — art  thou  altered  now  ?" 


"  Yes,  yes,"  I  sighed,  '=  on  my  spirit  gay, 

The  world's  dark  spell  has  had  its  sway  ; 

Ambitious  longings,  and  restless  schemes. 

Have  chased  the  light  of  my  girlish  dreams  ; 

And  if  in  my  bosom's  inmost  cell 

Some  kindly  feelings  yet  chance  to  dwell, 

Like  the  lingering  flowers  on  this  fated  ground, 

They  are  crushed  and  scorned  by  the  throng  around. 


15G  THE  IONIAN  CAPTIVE. 

"  O  Tiine  !  O  Change  !  ye  have  cast  a  gloom 

On  this  lovely  region  of  light  and  bloom  ; 

But  on  scenes  like  these  ye  might  wage  your  war, 

Would  ye  spare  possessions  dearer  far  I 

Go,  the  free  bounties  of  nature  seize — 

Go,  spoil  the  meadows,  the  brooks,  the  trees. 

So  that  ye  play  not  your  cruel  part 

On  the  warm,  ingenuous,  happy  heart  I" 


BY  MISS  L.  E.  LANDON. 

Sadly  the  captive  o'er  her  flowers  is  bending. 
While  her  soft  eye  with  sudden  sorrow  fills  ; 

They  are  not  those  that  grew  beneath  her  tending 
In  the  green  valley  of  her  native  hills. 


There  is  the  violet — not  from  the  meadow 
Where  wandered  carelessly  her  childish  feet ; 

There  is  the  rose — it  grew  not  in  the  shadow 
Of  her  old  home — it  cannot  be  so  sweet. 


And  yet  she  loves  them — for  those  flowers  are  bringing 
Dreams  of  the  home  that  she  will  see  no  more ; 

The  languid  perfumes  are  around  her  flinging 
What  almost  for  the  moment  they  restore. 

She  hears  her  mother's  wheel,  that  slowly  turning 
Murmured  unceasingly  the  summer  day  ; 

And  the  same  murmur,  when  the  pine-boughs  burning 
Told  that  the  summer-hours  had  passed  away. 


■  STANZAS.  15' 

.She  licars  her  young  companions  sadly  singing 
A  song  they  loved — an  old  complaining  tune  ; 

Then  comes  a  gayer  sound — the  laugh  is  ringing 
Of  the  young  children — hurrying  in  at  noon. 

By  the  dim  myrtles,  wandering  with  her  sister, 
They  tell  old  stories,  broken  by  the  mirth 

Of  her  young  brother ;  alas  I  have  they  missed  her, 
She  who  was  borne  a  captive  from  their  hearth  ? 

She  starts — too  present  grows  the  actual  sorrow, 
By  her  own  heart  she  knows  what  they  have  borne  ; 

Young  as  she  is,  she  shudders  at  to-morrow, 
It  can  but  find  her  prisoner  and  forlorn. 

What  are  the  glittering  trifles  that  surround  her — 
What  the  rich  shawl — and  what  the  golden  chain — 

Would  she  could  break  the  fetters  that  have  bound  her, 
And  see  her  household  and  her  hills  asrain  ! 


ON  nP:ARING  THE  BELLS  RING  IN  THE 
NEW  YEAR. 

BY  MRS.  CRAWFORD. 

Hark  I  how  the  chime  of  merry  bells 

Proclaims  the  new-born  year  ! 
What  magic  in  their  music  dwells. 

To  wake  the  slumb'ring  tear  ? 
It  seems  as  though  a  thousand  strings 

Were  vocal  in  my  heart, 
Breathing  of  long  forgotten  things, 

In  v.hich  I  once  had  part : — 
1.3^ 


158  SONG. 

Of  festivals  and  birth.days  kept, 

And  Christmas,  rife  with  glee, 
When  those  who  long  in  dust  have  slept 

Shared  hopes  and  joys  with  me  ; 
And  songs,  and  tales,  and  frolic  mirth 

Beguiled  our  wint'ry  hours. 
And  young  affection  round  the  hearth, 

Knit  heart  to  heart  with  flowers. 

The  aid  year 's  dead  and  past  away  ; 

A  chequered  robe  it  wore. 
Of  mingled  tints,  some  dark,  some  gay, 

Like  years  that  went  before. 
And,  ah  !  how  many  wishes  vain. 

With  days  and  nights  of  thought, 
Are  linked  to  that  prolonged  chain 

Another  year  has  wrought ! 

Awaken,  slumberer,  from  thy  sleep  ! 

Count  not  on  things  of  time  I 
Up,  up,  and  mount  the  starry  steep 

Supernal  spirits  climb  ! 
Let  not  another  year  depart 

Without  some  hopeful  tears — 
Some  golden  fruits,  laid  up  in  heart. 

For  the  eternal  years. 


BY  MRS.  C.  GOPtE. 

There  's  joy  'mid  the  green  forest  boughs  at  noon, 
When  the  autumn  breezes  wave  them. 

There  's  joy  on  the  shores  'neath  the  cloudless  moon, 
When  the  spring-tide  billows  lave  them  ; 


CAN  YOU  FORGET  ME  ?  159 

There  's  joy  e'en  in  wintry  wastes  at  even, 

When  our  home  lies  brisrlit  bclbrc  us  ; 
Ent  the  sweetest  of  all  is  the  blue  summer  heaven, 

When  inoniing  is  shining  o'er  us. 


Oh  I  give  niu  a  bower  o'crshaded  and  lone, 

To  gaze  on  the  calm  sunnncr  weather  ; 
A  bower  cool  and  fragrant,  and  sacred  for  one, 

Hut  pweeter  when  two  are  together. 
There  our  licarts,  that  with  sorrow  too  long  have  striv'n, 

To  our  youth's  bright  dreams  restore  us, 
Bcr)oalli  the  soft  light  of  the  blue  summer  heaven, 

While  morniii"'  is  shininir  o'er  us. 


BY  MISS  L.  E.  LANDON, 

Can  you  forget  me  ?— I  who  have  so  cherished 

The  veriest  trifle  that  was  memory's  link  ; 
TIse  roses  that  you  gave  me,  altliough  perished, 

Were  preciou:^  in  my  sight ;  they  made  me  think, 
You  took  them  in  their  scentless  beauty  stooping 

From  the  warm  shelter  of  the  garden  wall ; 
Autumn,  while  into  languid  winter  drooping, 

Gave  its  last  blossoms,  opening  but  to  fall. 
Can  you  forget  them  ? 


Can  you  forget  me  ? — I  am  not  relying 

On  plighted  vou's — alas  I  I  knovv'  their  worth 

^Man's  faith  to  woman,  is  a  trifle,  dying 
Upon  the  very  breath  that  gave  it  birth. 


160  CAN  YOU  FORGET  ME  ? 

But  I  remember  hours  of  quiet  gladness, 

When,  if  the  heart  had  truth,  it  spoke  it  then, 
When  thoughts  would  sometimes  take  a  tone  of  sad- 
ness, 
And  then  unconsciously  grow  glad  again. 
Can  you  forget  them  ? 

Can  you  forget  me  ? — My  whole  soul  xvu.s  blended. 

At  least  it  sought  to  blend  itself  with  thine  ; 
My  life's  whole  purpose,  winning  thee,  seemed  ended ; 

Thou  wert  my  heart's  sweet  home — my  spirit's 
shrine. 
Can  you  forget  me  ? — when  the  firelight  burning, 

Flung  sudden  gleams  around  the  quiet  room, 
How  would  thy  words,  to  long  past  moments  turning, 

Trust  me  with  thoughts  soft  as  the  shadowy  gloom  ! 
Can  you  forget  them  ? 

There  is  no  truth  in  love  whate'er  its  seeming. 

And  heaven  itself  could  scarcely  seem  more  true — 
Sadly  have  I  awakened  from  the  dreaming. 

Whose  charmed  slumber — false  one  ! — was  of  you. 
I  gave  mine  inmost  being  to  thy  keeping — 

I  had  no  thought  I  did  not  seek  to  share  ; 
Feelings  that  hushed  within  my  soul  were  sleeping. 

Waked  into  voice,  to  trust  tliem  to  thy  care. 
Can  you  forget  them  ? 

Can  you  forget  me  ? — This  is  vainly  tasking 

The  faithless  heart  where  I,  alas  !  am  not. 
Too  well  I  know  the  idleness  of  asking — 

The  misery — of  why  am  I  forgot  ? 
The  happy  hours  that  I  have  passed  while  kneeling, 

Half  slave,  half  child,  to  gaze  upon  thy  face. 
— But  what  to  thee  this  passionate  appealing — 

Let  my  heart  break — it  is  a  common  case. 
You  have  forgotten  me. 


IGl 

A  TALE  OF  A  COUNTRY  TOWN. 
BY  MRS.  ABDY. 

INlARRinD  people  arc  very  fond  of  match-makinsT,  and 
wieked  wils  say,  that  they  act  on  tlie  principle  of  the 
man  who,  when  irretrievably  stuck  in  the  mire,  called 
to  a  friend  to  come  and  a^^sist  him,  with  the  vievv  of 
gettinjT  him  into  a  similar  situatioji.  Old  maids  are 
remarkably  f  jnd  of  match-breaking-,  and  the  reason  is 
the  same  ;  they  feel  that  they  are  doomed  to  perpetual 
banishment  from  the  temple  of  Hymen,  and  therefore 
are  desirous  of  securinj^  as  many  companio-is  as  possi- 
ble in  their  exile.  T  do  not  dislike  the  old  maid  who 
is  fairly  turned  of  sixty ;  by  that  time  she  gives  up  all 
matrimonial  speculations  for  herself,  and  is  not  ren- 
dered miserable  by  the  succes.v  of  them  in  others;  she 
betakes  herself  to  cards,  lap-dogs,  and  paroquets,  ac- 
cepts the  flattery  of  a  toad-cater  if  rich,  or  becomes 
the  toad-eater  herself  if  poor  ;  she  may  be  generally 
splenetic,  but  is  seldom  individually  spiteful.  The  old 
maid  of  forty,  or  five-and-forty,  however,  is  the  very 
genius  of  mischief;  she  has  not  yet  taken  leave  of  the 
air,  dref^s,  and  manners  of  juvenility  ;  she  has  a  lin- 
gering hope  that  she  may  be  able  to  rival  girls,  which, 
nevertheless,  always  terminates  in  the  sad  certainty 
of  being  rivalled  by  them  ;  and  next  to  the  apparently 
inaccessible  felicity  of  being  married  herself,  she  learns 
to  rank  the  pleasure  of  spoiling  the  marriages  of  her 
young  female  friends.  My  business,  however,  is  not 
to  write  a  treati."o  upon  old  maids ;  but  to  relate  the 
history  of  two  of  the  class  who  were  no  contemptible 
and  njcan  professors  of  the  art  of  match-breaking. 

Miss  Oglcby  was  five-and-forty  ;  she  had  been  hand, 
some  when  young,  and  might  ?:till  have  appeared  to 


1G2  :\IATCII-BREAKING. 

advantage  had  she  condescended  to  wear  dark  silks, 
blonde  caps,  and  tolerably-sized  bonnets,  to  walk  a 
moderate  pace,  and  to  speak  in  a  moderate  tone.  Miss 
Ogleby,  however,  v/as  bent  on  playing  the  light-heart- 
ed, gay,  fearless,  juvenile  beauty;  the  hair  of  her  Vv'ig 
was  drawn  back  so  as  completely  to  display  the  marks 
of  time  on  her  forehead,  her  thin  arms  fully  displayed, 
not  their  whiteness  and  symmetry,  but  their  want  of 
them,  through  gauze  or  book-muslin  sleeves;  she  adopt- 
ed a  tripping,  playful  Vvalk,  which  ill-assorted  with 
her  frequent  attacks  of  the  rheumatism ;  and  her  voice, 
which  even  in  youth  was  more  remarkable  for  loudness 
than  for  melody,  had  acquired  that  sort  of  sharp,  dog- 
matical quickness,  which  is  more  fit  for  cross-examin- 
ing a  witness  than  for  any  office  to  which  a  lady's 
voice  ought  to  be  applied  ;  her  eyes,  which  v/cre  black, 
and  remarkably  large  and  bright,  lost  all  attraction 
from  the  bold  stare  which  characterized  them  ;  her 
teeth  were  in  tolerable  preservation,  and  if  two  of  the 
front  ones  were  of  a  more  brilliant  whiteness  than  the 
rest,  it  is  nothing  wonderful  that  inconsistencies  should 
sometimes  exist  in  the  human  mouth,  when  we  con- 
sider how  many  are  continually  coming  out  of  it. 

Miss  Ogleby  had  tried  unremittingly  to  gain  a  hus- 
band from  the  age  of  sixteen,  but  her  large  share  of 
forwardness  completely  neutralized  the  effect  of  her 
small  share  of  beauty ;  she  had,  besides,  no  fortune  in 
her  youth  ;  and  when  the  death  of  an  aunt  put  her  in 
possession  of  a  few  hundreds  a  year,  her  faded  person 
and  unfeminine  manners  prevented  her  from  receiving 
proposals,  except  from  decided  adventurers,  whose  mo- 
tives she  had  sufiicient  shrewdness  to  detect,  and  whose 
overtures  she  had  sufficient  wariness  and  self-denial 
to  reject.  iMiis  Ogleby  took  the  round  of  all  the  wa- 
tering-places, and  then  pursued  the  plan  of  Lady  Dain- 
ty in  the  comedy,  who  when  she  had  gone  through  all 
the  complaints  of  the  day-book  went  all  through  them 
again  ;  at  length,  she  was  induced  to  take  a  house  in 


MATCH-EKEAKING.  IGS 

llic  prcUy,  clieaj),  cheerful  counlr}'  town  of  Allingliam; 
a  country  town  is  a  delightful  locality  for  an  old  maid. 
Gossip  is  as  avowedly  the  great  study  and  pursuit  there, 
as  the  classics  at  Oxford,  or  the  mathematics  at  Cam. 
bridge  ;  and  Miss  Ogleby  soon  qualified  herself  to  take 
a  first  degree  in  the  science  ;  whether  she  took  honors 
or  not  I  will  not  pretend  to  say  ;  I  do  not  myself  con- 
sider that  the  science  of  gossip  has  any  honors  attached 
to  it,  but  I  am  quite  ready  to  allow  that  a  great  many 
j)copIe  are  of  a  contrary  opinion.  Miss  Ogleby's  chief 
j)astime  now  consisted  in  match-breaking,  and  she  cer- 
tainly organized  her  plans  very  well ;  she  did  not  frown 
contempt  on  the  young  girls  of  her  acquaintance,  cen- 
sure their  frivolities,  and  repulse  their  civilities  ;  but 
she  eagerly  sought  their  society,  joined  in  their  amuse- 
ments, and  rallied  them  about  their  admirers ;  she 
constantly  avoided  at  parties  the  sofa  where  sat  the 
matrons — she  never  approached  the  card  table  either 
as  player  or  spectator  ;  Ijut  took  her  scat  by  the  piano, 
or  stood  by  the  bagatelle-board,  generally  indicating 
her  position  by  her  loud  laugh  and  ready  jest.  Not- 
withstanding all  these  juvenilities,  people  did  not  be- 
lieve IMiss  Ogleby  to  be  young,  but  they  said  that  she 
was  remarkably  fond  of  young  people ;  now  in  this 
conclusion  they  were  v.-rong.  Miss  Ogleby  v.as  not 
fond  of  young  people,  but  she  knew  that  her  machina- 
tions against  them  would  work  much  better  if  she  ap- 
peared as  their  friend  than  as  their  foe,  and  took  her 
measures  accordingly.  If  a  young  man  appeared  dis- 
posed to  admire  a  different  girl.  Miss  Ogleby  would 
immediately  attach  herself  to  her  side,  take  the  con- 
versation completely  out  of  her  hands,  answer  every 
observation  of  the  inamorato  herself,  and,  under  the 
veil  of  great  protection  and  fondness,  contrive  to  make 
the  retiring  fair  one  appear  as  a  child  and  a  cipher  ;  if, 
on  the  contrary,  the  lover  was  timid,  Miss  Ogleby 
would,  in  the  very  first  budding  of  his  inclination,  tell 
him  that  everybody  said  his  wedding-day  was  fixed, 


164  3IATCII-BREAKING. 

ask  where  tlie  honeymoon  excursion  was  to  be  taken, 
and  petition  for  bridecake.  If  a  man  of  wealth  seemed 
smitten  with  a  penniless  beauty,  she  would  tell  him 
that  she  understood  he  had  offered  to  settle  ten  thou- 
sand pounds  upon  her,  but  that  the  lady's  friends  stood 
out  for  twenty,  and  that  she  begged  to  give  her  humble 
advice  that  they  would  split  the  difference  and  make  it 
fifteen  ;  if  a  prudent,  careful  man  of  small  income 
formed  an  attachment,  she  would,  with  the  utmost 
simplicity,  eulogize  to  him  the  liberal  ideas  and  noble 
spirit  of  his  chosen  fair  one ;  and  as  all  these  observa- 
tions were  made  with  the  most  smiling  hilarit)^,  and  as 
she  was  always  on  excellent  terms  with  the  girls  Vv'hom 
she  depreciated,  it  was  impossible  to  prove,  or  even  to 
believe  her  guilty  of  wilful  aspersion. 

Miss  Ogleby  had  formed  an  intimacy  at  Bath  witii 
Miss  Malford,  another  old  maid  :  she  began  to  feel  a 
great  want  of  a  confidante  and  coadjutor,  and  therefore 
v/rote  to  her  friend,  extolling  the  advantages  and  rec- 
ommendations of  Allingham,  and  pressing  her  to  come 
and  settle  there  ;  a  pretty  and  cheap  house  near  her 
ovv'n  v.-as  to  be  disposed  of,  and  Miss  Malford  soon  took 
up  her  residence  there.  Miss  Malford  was  three  years 
younger  than  Miss  Ogleby,  but  she  had  not,  like  her, 
the  advantage  of  having  ever  been  handsome  ;  she  was 
decidedly  deformed,  and  her  countenance  had  that  el- 
fin, shrewd  expression,  which  frequently  exists  in  per. 
sons  so  afflicted ;  and  although  not  more  ill-natured 
than  Jier  friend  in  rcalit}^  she  had  the  character  of 
being  so,  because,  being  much  cleverer,  she  had  a  great 
ability  of  saying  sarcastic  things.  Her  property  was 
enough  to  keep  her  in  independence,  but  not  sufficient 
to  be  an  indemnification  for  the  unloveliness  of  her 
person  and  disposition. 

One  "  poor  gentleman,"  however,  who  was  rapidly 
advancing  to  the  end  of  the  London  season  and  his 
own  finances,  wrought  himself  up  to  the  desperate  re- 
solution of  making  a  proposal  to  Miss  Malford.     Feci- 


MATCII-BKEAKING.  165' 

ing  thai  this  darling  measure  required  the  protection 
of  numbers,  he  determined  to  make  known  his  passion 
in  some  public  place.  He  accompanied  Miss  Malford 
lo  the  exhibition  at  Somerset  House ;  but,  alas  !  the 
beautiful  productions  of  innumerable  delightful  por- 
trait-painters smiled  and  shone  around  him  on  every 
side,  and  he  felt  he  could  not  profane  the  atmosphere 
of  such  forms  of  loveliness,  by  applying  any  expressions 
of  admiration  to  the  little,  sallow,  frowning  spinster, 
hanging  on  his  arm. 

The  next  attempt  was  at  the  Adelaide  Gallery,  and 
he  was  actually  on  the  point  of  making  a  proposal, 
when  hi.s  liege  lady  inadvertently  expressed  a  wish  to 
bo  electrified  ;  it  was  instantly  complied  with,  and  the 
fjrcc  cmplo)'ed  being  greater  than  she  had  calculated 
upon,  her  starts  and  contortions  made  her  appear  so 
much  more  frightful  than  usual,  that  she  lost  the  op- 
portunity of  receiving  a  far  more  gratifying  electric 
sho?k  in  the  shape  of  an  offer  of  marriage. 

The  third  act  of  the  comedy  or  tragedy,  call  it 
which  you  will,  took  place  at  Madame  Tussaud's 
wax-work.  The  hesitating  suitor  had  accompanied 
Miss  Malford  and  two  of  her  friends  thither  in  the 
evening  ;  the  grand  room  was  splendidly  lighted  up, 
and  a  band  was  playing  "  Love  in  the  Heart ;"  but, 
alas  I  love  was  not  in  the  heart  of  the  unfortunate 
young  man,  he  did  not  "  own  the  soft  hnpcach- 
ment."  Presently,  however,  he  entered  with  his  i)arty 
into  the  "  room  of  horrors  ;"  a  faint  lamp  burned  dim- 
ly ;  he  looked  at  Miss  xAIalford,  she  had  never  appeared 
to  such  advantage  ;  her  complexion  was  actually  only 
a  faint  shade  of  primrose  wlien  compared  to  the  yellow 
waxen  elfigy  in  the  centre  of  the  room;  and  although 
her  head  was  very  ungracefully  set  upon  her  shoulders, 
it  boas'.ed  at  least  one  great  superiority  to  the  ghastly 
hcado  around  her,  from  the  circumstance  of  its  being 
on  iier  shoulders  at  ail. 
14 


166  r.IATCK-BKEAKI.XG. 

The  lady  and  gentlemen  of  their  party  quitted  the 
room,  and  the  rash  suitor  was  on  the  point  of  pouring- 
forth  his  pas.sionatc  protestations,  wlien  I\Iiss  Malford 
stopped  him  by  beginning  to  speak  herself.  A  lady  is 
proverbially  anxious  for  the  last  word,  it  would  be  well 
f-ometimes  if  she  were  not  equally  anxious  for  the  first. 
Miss  Malford  poured  forth  such  a  torrent  of  spiteful 
vituperation,  against  the  lady  who  had  just  left  the 
room — and  whose  only  fault  was  that  her  prettiness 
and  amiability  seemed  likel}'^  to  make  a  conquest  of  the 
gentleman  who  was  her  escort — that  the  feelings  of 
the  poor  suitor  undervv-cnt  a  sudden  revulsion ;  he 
looked  around  the  room,  the  quietude  and  repose  of 
the  yellow  figures  were  quite  refreshing  after  the  dis- 
play of  very  disagreeable  vivacity  which  he  had  wit- 
iiessed ;  and  although  the  heads  were  divorced  from 
their  shoulders,  tJiose  little  unruly  members,  the 
tongues,  had  become  silent  and  innoxious  in  the  pro- 
cess. The  gentleman  led  I\Iiss  Malford  from  the  room 
of  horrors,  still  likely  to  remain  IMiss  Malford,  and  re- 
turned to  his  peaceable,  though  humble  lodgings,  not 
a  "  sadder,"  but  certainly  a  "  wiser  man,"  than  when 
he  contemplated  the  desperate  expedient  of  enriching 
and  enlivening  them  by  the  introduction  of  a  shrewish 
wife. 

Miss  ?»IaIford  was  deeply  hurt  by  his  secession  ;  she 
now  began  to  despair  of  making  conquests,  and  formed 
her  character  on  the  model  of  Bonnel  Thornton's 
"  mighty  good  sort  of  a  woman  ;■'  she  interfered  in  the 
affairs  of  families — made  husbands  discontented  with 
their  Vv'ives — put  variance  between  parents  and  child- 
ren— got  gay  nephevrs  and  saucy  neices  scratched  out 
of  the  wills  of  rich  uncles  and  aunts — domineered  over 
servants — and  lectured  poor  people. 

After  her  intimacy  with  Miss  Ogleby,  however,  she 
became  convinced  that  although  there  may  be  much 
pleasure  in  mischievous  actions  in  the  aggregate,  that 
peculiar  branch,  which  consists   in  match-breaking. 


MATCII-KREAKIXG.  107 

seems  most  decidedly  cut  out  f^or  llie  vocation  of  the 
old  maid ;  aud  when  she  was  once  settled  at  Alling- 
Jiam,  she  devoted  all  her  energies  to  that  one  single 
great  point.  I  will  not  relate  the  number  of  proposed 
)iiatches  which  these  well-assortcd  friends  nipped  in 
the  bud  or  the  blossom,  during  the  first  year  of  their 
residence  at  Allingham  ;  but  will  hasten  to  hitroduce 
my  readers  to  a  very  pretty  young  la  ly,  v/ho  had  the 
misfjrtunc  of  falling  under  their  especial  ban.  Ailing, 
hatn  was  a  town  which,  on  account  of  its  fine  air,  rea- 
sonable provisions,  ar^d  frequent  gaieties,  was  consid- 
ered a  very  desirable  residence  by  persons  of  genteel 
habits  and  small  fortune;^;  and  Mrs.  Stapleton,  the 
handsome  widow  of  an  officer,  deemed  it  an  advan- 
tageous spot  for  herself  and  her  only  daughter,  Rose, 
to  settle  iii. 

Rose  Stapleton  was  about  twenty  years  old,  and  a 
complete  personification  of  youlli  in  her  appearance 
and  motions  ;  perhaps  I  may  be  considered  to  have  been 
guilty  of  tautology  in  this  sentence  ;  but  I  know  many 
girls  whom  I  maintain  have  never  been  young — who 
are,  and  always  have  been,  destitute  of  the  uprightness, 
elasticity,  and  freshness  of  youth.  Such  was  not  Rose 
Stapleton  ;  she  was  remarkably  pretty  ;  and  her  beauty 
on  account  of  its  decidedly  bright  and  juvenile  charac- 
teristics, was  likely  to  be  peculiarly  objectionable  to 
the  sight  of  an  old  maiJ.  She  had  a  profusion  of  rich 
sunny  ringlets,  intensely  blue  e3'es,  ro.~y  cheeks,  and 
scarlet  lips,  and  teeth  so  brilliantly  white,  that  Miss 
]\Ialford  said  they  offered  an  infallible  indication  of 
consumption  ;  the  figure  of  Rose,  hov.'ever,  had  nothing 
consumptive  about  her,  being  somcv.-hat  below  the  mid- 
dle size,  and  inclined  to  a  degree  of  plumpness  which 
might  have  injured  its  girlish  air,  had  it  not  been  coun- 
terbalanced by  the  light  and  sylph-like  agility  of  her 
mien.  Rose  had  also  a  smile  so  very  sweet,  as  to  give 
reason  to  suppose  that  her  temper  was  equally  so.  Mrs. 
Stapleton  was  generally  considered  and  denominated 


1G8  r.IATCK-EnEAKIXG. 

a  worldly-wise  woman  ;  bat  I  am  of  opinion  that  she 
was  rather  injured  by  the  phrase  ;  she  had  none  of  the 
cold,  calculating  policy,  which  usually  appertains  to 
such  a  character.  She  certainly  wished  and  expected 
that  her  daughter  should  marry  a  wealthy  man,  and 
the  exceeding  personal  attractions  of  Rose  did  not 
seem  to  render  such  a  hope  at  all  unreasonable  ;  but 
she  took  no  particular  means  to  secure  her  point,  save 
giAnng  smiles  and  invitations  to  rich  men,  and  cool  re- 
ceptions and  averted  looks  to  poor  ones.  She  did 
not  carry  her  beautiful  Rose  to  display  "  her  buskins 
gemmed  with  morning  dew"  in  the  early  promenade  of 
Cheltenham,  or  to  "  wave  her  golden  hah'"  in  the  stir- 
ring breezes  of  Brighton. 

Rose  Stapleton  was  not  educated  or  put  for  display  ; 
she  neither  acted  charades,  nor  shot  at  archery  meet- 
ings, nor  officiated  at  fancy  fairs,  nor  attitudinized  in 
tableaux — she  was  simply  an  engaging,  unsophisticated 
girl,  with  a  lovely  face,  moderate  accomplishm.ents, 
and  a  fine  temper.  Mrs.  Stapleton  shov/ed  one  proof 
of  sti  ict  attention  to  her  daughter's  matrimonial  inter, 
ests,  which  she  considered  to  indicate  great  shrewd- 
ness on  her  part,  but  which  in  my  opinion  was  decided- 
ly the  reverse.  She  did  not  permit  Rose  to  form  a 
close  intimacy  with  any  of  the  girls  among  her  acquain- 
tance, but  as  she  felt  that  it  would  not  be  desirable  to 
have  her  unaccompanied  by  female  associates,  she 
readily  accepted  the  overtures  of  Miss  Ogleby  and  Miss 
Malford  to  exceeding  sociability.  Mrs.  Stapleton  ar- 
gued to  herself,  with  what  she  considered  the  tact  of 
a  woman  of  the  world.  "  If  Rose  be  surrounded  by 
young  and  attractive  girls,  the  attentions  of  any  one 
disposed  to  admire  her  will  be  divided,  or  perhaps  even 
alienated  ;  now,  Miss  Ogleby  and  ]\Iiss  Malford  are 
excellent  foils,  and  although  they  are  v/orthy,  kind  crea- 
tures, no  man  in  his  senses  who  is  a  good  match,  would 
ever  think  of  ofTerhig  to  either  of  them  ;  then  they  are 
both  \ery  fond  of  Rose,  and  will  lie  sure  to  drav/  l:!er 


r-IATCH-RREAKLNn.  1G9 

out,  nnd  speak  liiglily  of  li?r  if  rpouirod,  for  she  is 
young  cnoiigia  to  he  the  da!i2;iiler  of  cither  of  them, 
and  of  course  is  quite  out  of  the  question  as  a  rival." 

Poor  ^Irs.  Stapleton  ;  she  little  knew  the  instinctive 
hatred  felt  hy  an  old  maid  for  a  young  beauty  ;  she 
was  a  thoroughly  good-natured  woman,  v.ithout  tlie 
least  taste  for  mischief,  and  would  just  as  soon  have 
thought  of  amusing  herself  in  breaking  matches,  as  in 
breaking  china. 

Rose  also  gave  full  credit  to  the  protestations  of 
friendship  which  she  received  from  the  spinsters  ;  she 
and  her  mother  both  wondered  that  two  or  three  gen- 
tlemen, who  had  seemed  greatly  to  admire  her,  had 
never  made  any  serious  proposal  to  her  ;  but  they  lit- 
tle imagined  that  the  constant  spying,  the  officious  in- 
trusions,  and  the  sly  inuendoes  of  their  two  dear  friends, 
were  the  real  cause  of  the  apparent  coolness  and  dila- 
toriness  of  the  lovers.  Had  Rose  selected  young  and 
pretty  girls  for  her  intimate  associates,  they  would  fre- 
quently have  been  sought  for  by  the  beaux,  who  would 
have  been  anxious  to  become  their  partners  in  the 
dance,  or  their  escorts  in  the  rural  walk,  and  they 
would  have  been  too  well  employed  and  too  well  pleased 
to  watch  and  circumvent  all  her  proceedings  ;  but  Miss 
Ogleby  and  Miss  Malford  were  always  at  hand  to  re- 
lieve guard  v.-ith  each  other ;  they  acted,  in  fact,  the 
part  of  complete  duennas;  but  poor  Rose  never  suspect- 
ed them  to  be  such,  .since  she  was  unable  to  picture  a 
duenna  abounding  in  compliments,  tender  phrases, 
and  fair  speeches.  One  of  the  favorite  amusements 
of  the  people  of  Allinghain,  was  to  join  in  picnic  par- 
lies  to  some  secluded  and  beautiful  spot  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  these  pleasure-parties  were  often  produc- 
tive of  anything  but  pleasure  to  the  old,  rheumatic, 
and  ailing.  They  were  generally  fixed  a  week  or  ten 
days  beforehand,  and  therefore,  as  weather  in  England 
is  generally  rainy  if  it  is  particularly  wanted  to  be 
otherwise,  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  to  sec  the  whole 
14* 


170  MATCII-EREAKINGc 

party  pet  out  armed  with  nmbrellap,  and  follovved  by 
servants  laden  with  wrapping-cloaks  and  box-coats. 
Sometimes  they  made  their  way  through  thorny  hedges 
to  the  peril  and  destruction  of  scarfs,  veils,  and  drapery; 
sometimes  they,  pursued  the  path  of  a  slippery  declivity, 
not  frequently  achieving  the  whole  distance  from  top 
to  bottom  in  a  minute,  at  the  slight  expense  of  a  spoiled 
dress,  or  a  fi-actured  limb,  and  they  then  refreshed 
themselves  after  their  fatigues  by  sitting  with  their 
legs  doubled  up  under  them,  in  the  fashion  of  a  Turk 
or  a  tailor,  upon  the  wet  grass,  eating  cold  delicacies 
from  plates  sliding  0:1  their  laps,  and  maintaining  a  use- 
less  conflict  with  the  wasps  who  hummed  around  them, 
attracted  by  the  good  cheer  in  which  they  abounded. 

Now  Rose  was  eminently  qualified  to  appear  to  ad- 
vantage at  these  pic-nics  ;  she  had  unrivalled  abilities 
at  scrambling — she  wore  no  finery  which  it  injured  her 
temper  or  her  spirits  to  get  spoiled — she  scarcely  ever 
caught  cold — she  had  a  natural  grace,  which  prevent- 
ed her  from  appearing  awkward,  even  in  the  doubled- 
up  attitude  fitted  to  a  pic-nic  board — and  her  beautiful 
complexion  could  triumphantly  defy  the  most  search- 
ing ordeal  of  a  bright  blazing  July  sun  ;  add  to  these 
recommendations  those  of  an  exquisitely  turned  foot 
and  ancle,  and  my  readers  will  not  be  surprised  that 
the  firm  of  Ogleby  and  Malford  deemed  it  particularly 
neccsasry  to  act  as  a  shadow  to  Rose  on  every  pic-nic 
party,  lest  any  of  the  young  men  vAio  were  in  the  habit 
of  frequenting  them,  should  be  so  struck  with  the 
charms  of  Rose,  and  the  combined  delights  of  country 
seclusion,  spreading  trees,  cold  .chickens,  and  cham- 
pagne, as  to  put  their  admiration  into  the  awful  and 
tangible  shape  of  an  offer  of  marriage.  Once  Miss 
Ogleby  got  a  sprained  ancle  by  rapidly  following  Rose 
down  some  rude  steps  cut  in  a  rock,  where  a  young 
ofiicer  in  the  neighborhood  was  tenderly  conductmg 
her,  and  Miss  Malford  had  a  severe  cold  and  sore  throat 
from  insisting  on  sitting  between  her  dear  Rose  and 


.■\IATCII. BREAKING.  171 

the  handsome  attorney  of  Allin^iham  on  the  dajnp 
t^rass,  alllioupjli  rliairs  and  camp-stools  had  been  pro- 
vided for  the  seniors  of  the  company.  The  kind-heart- 
ed unsuspcctinjT  Rose  went  con.'^lantly  to  sit  with  Mii?s 
Ogleby,  and  read  to  her,  till  the  sprained  ancle  grew 
well,  and  she  was  iiulofatigable  ia  her  presents  of  lo-^- 
engcs  and  black  currant  jell}''  to  Miss  Malford  during 
the  continuancj  of  her  sore  throat  ;  she  would  have 
softened  the  hearts  of  almost  any  other  adversaries  ; 
but  match-breakers  have  no  hearts  of  their  own,  and 
their  greatest  pastime  consists  in  probing  and  torment- 
ing those  of  other  people.  An  c'^ent  was  now  to  liap- 
pen  v/hicli  converted  the  Ciivious  ill--.vi;l  of  those  ladies 
towards  the  blooming,  into  decided  and  malignant  en- 
mity. Every  town  has  its  great  man,  and  Allingham 
had  a  very  great  man  belonging  to  it.  Sir  Peregrine 
Dalliiig,  a  baronet  of  old  family  and  large  fortune,  had 
a  mansion  a  little  way  out  of  the  town  ;  he  was  about 
fifty-five  years  old,  had  higli  spirits,  a  loud  voice,  and 
a  strong  constitution  ;  he  was  fond  of  the  country, 
fond  of  field  sports,  and  especially  fond  of  embellish- 
ing and  improving  his  beautiful  residence,  and  there- 
fore had  about  as  great  an  aversion  as  Hav/thorn,  for 

"  That  region  of  smoke. 
That  scene  of  confusion  and  noise," 

known  by  the  name  of  London. 

A  country  town  is  generally  full  of  ladies,  who  are 
keenly  ahvc  to  detect  every  symptom  of  a  marrying 
man,  provided  such  man  be  possessed  of  sufficient  for- 
tune to  render  a  marriage  with  him  desirable ;  but, 
strange  to  say,  nobody  ever  suspected  the  possibility 
that  Sir  Peregrine  might  be  inclined  to  marry.  I  rath- 
er  think  that  I  can  assign  a  reason  for  this  strange 
dullness.  Sir  Peregrine  had  been  a  widower  fivc-and- 
twenty  years,  and  during  that  time  no  one  had  ever 
heard  a  whisper  of  his  predilections  or  flirtations  ;  now, 


172  MATCII-BKEATCING. 

when  an  old  bachelor  falls  in  love,  and  wishes  to  mar- 
ry,  no  one  is  ever  astonished  ;  it  may  be  supposed  that 
he  is  anxious  to  ascertain  the  efrect  of  a  strange  and 
untried  state  of  existence  ;  but  when  a  widower  lias  re- 
mained wifeless  through  a  long  period  of  3'cars,  it  may 
reasonably  be  conjectured,  either  that  the  good  quali- 
ties of  his  deceased  partner  have  wedded  him  to  her 
remembrance,  or  that  her  bad  ones  have  affrighted  him 
from  encountering  the  chance  of  a  second  edition  of 
them  in  the  person  of  a  second  v/ife.  Accordingly,  no- 
body attempted  to  entrap  Sir  Peregrine  as  a  husband, 
although  all  were  delighted  to  receive  his  lavish  civili- 
ties and  hospitalities  as  the  master  of  a  large  income, 
and  a  large  house.  His  parties  were  numerous,  and 
liis  presents  abundant ;  he  was  a  kind-ltearted,  gener- 
ous man,  and  as  he  did  not  see  through  the  characters 
of  our  two  spinsters,  and  was  pleased  with  their  atten- 
tive and  obliging  manners  to  him,  gifts  of  fruit  and 
game,  and  drives  in  his  carriage,  u-ere  frequently  at 
their  command,  and  as  they  really  believed  him  un- 
likely to  marry,  they  spoke  no  more  than  the  truth, 
when  they  designated  him  as  "  an  excellent  neighbor, 
and  a  great  acquisition  to  Allingham." 

One  morning,  Sir  Peregrine  called  on  Miss  Ogleby, 
and  after  some  nervous  hesitations,  and  divers  tv^'itch- 
ings  of  the  hat,  actually  confided  to  her  that  he  thought 
of  again  entering  into  the  matrimonial  state.  Miss 
Ogleby,  who,  to  do  her  figure  justice,  was  so  upright 
as  to  be  on  the  continual  bridle,  now  bridled  still  high- 
er ;  she  bit  her  thin  pale  lips  to  make  them  look  red, 
shook  the  long  gold  ear-rings  in  her  ears,  and  artlessly 
sported  v.uth  a  drooping  side  ringlet  of  her  v\^ig  ;  she 
could  not  doubt  that  his  intention  referred  to  herself. 

"  The  object  of  my  choice  is  your  most  intimate  and 
highly-valued  friend,"  pursued  the  baronet. 

Priiss  Ogleby  loosened  her  hold  of  her  ringlet,  and 
ceased  to  bristle  ;  she  bit  her  lip,  however,  more  vio- 
lentlv  than  ever  ;  her  most  intimate  and  chosen  friend 


MATCII-EREAKING.  173 

was  Miss  IMalford.  Could  it  bo  endured  that  her  sis. 
ter  match-breakcr  should  silly  have  secured  such  au 
excellent  and  s])lendid  match  for  herself. 

"Dear  Sir  Peregrine,"  she  said,  "my  very  heart 
ar-hes  for  you  ;  Miss  Malford  has  certainly  forced  her- 
self  into  some  degree  of  intercourse  with  mc,  but  1  do 
not  know  any  one  calculated  to  make  a  worse  wife  ; 
her  person  is  that  of  a  malevolent  old  fairy,  and  her 
actions  are  not  far  different ;  she  is  the  terror  of  her 
servants,  whom  she  starves,  suspects,  and  insults ;  the 
horror  of  the  poor,  to  whom  she  never  gives  a  shilling, 
her  donations  entirely  consisting  of  lectures  on  the  ex- 
pediency of  living  on  oatmeal  and  red-herrings,  and  the 
facilities  of  bringing  up  a  fanuly  on  ten  shillings  a  week, 
and  a  perfect  spirit  of  discord  among  her  friends  and 
acquaintance,  who  can  trace  most  of  their  quarrels 
and  misimderstandi".gs  to  her  mischievous  instigations. 
Do,  Sir  Peregrine,  consider  twice  before  you  place 
your  happiness  in  the  charge  of  such  a  woman." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Ogleby,"  said  the  baronet,  dryly, 
"you  give  yourself  needless  pain.  In  respect  to  Miss 
?tIalford'd  bad  qualities,  I  may  reasonably  be  allowed 
to  suppose  that  they  must  be  counteracted  by  some 
powerful  recommendations,  else  you  could  never  be  in- 
duced to  indulge  her  with  so  much  of  your  valuable  so- 
ciety ;  but  whether  her  qualities  be  bad  or  good,  can  be 
of  little  consequence  to  me,  except  as  a  common  ac- 
quaintance. I  am  on  the  point  of  endeavoring  to  gain 
the  hand  of  another  of  your  intimate  friends,  Rose 
Slapleton." 

INIiss  Ogleby  for  a  wonder  was  completely  silenced 
by  the  excess  of  her  eonslernation  ;  had  she  been  com- 
niitting  treason  to  her  faithful  and  guiltless  friend,  Miss 
Malford  ?  had  she  been  exposing  herself  to  the  evident 
ridicule  of  Sir  Peregrine  ?  had  she  deprived  herself  of 
the  op})ortunity  of  speaking  against  the  vanity  and  lev- 
ity of  Rose,  and  the  worldliness  and  cunning  of  Mrs. 
Stapleton?     It  was  all  too  true;  and  while  she  was 


174  IVTATCK-BEEAKING, 

attempting  to  find  some  form  of  words,  by  wiiich  she 
could  repair  her  unfortunate  mistake,  Sir  Peregrine 
gaily  smiled,  bowed,  and  said  "Good  morning  I"  and 
the  awful  bang  of  t])c  street-door  informed  her  that  he 
was  gone  to  protTer  wealth  and  honor,  conservatories, 
ice-houses,  green-houses,*  pineries,  &,c.,  to  the  little 
insignificant  Rose  Stapleton.  Sir  Peregrine,  having 
a  natural  turn  of  mind  for  the  ludicrous,  and  not  being 
Fo  enthusiastically  in  love  as  to  deem  it  necessary  to 
look  pensive  in  the  matter,  actually  laughed  to  him- 
self as  he  pursued  his  way  down  the  High  street.  He 
Jiad  not  intended  to  call  on  ■\[iss  Malford,  but  now  the 
prospect  of  a  repetition  of  his  late  amusement  induced 
him  to  do  so.  He  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  "  malevo- 
lent old  fairy,"  and  was  admitted. 

"  Miss  Malford,"  said  Sir  Peregrine,  "  I  have  jus-t 
been  calling  on  your  charming,  avimated,  and,  I  may 
add,  lovely  friend,  Miss  Ogleby.  The  cause  of  my  vis- 
it I  will  not  hesitate  to  own  to  you,  her  chosen  inti- 
mate ;  in  fact,  I  am  convinced  she  will  herself  be  able 
to  inform  you  of  it.  For  some  time  it  has  been  my  in- 
tention to  marry  again,  and — and — "  Sir  Peregrine 
hesitated,  as  if  laboring  under  embarrassment,  but 
Miss  Malford  had  already  seized  on  the  idea  he  meant 
to  convey ;  her  habitual  frown  was  increased  three-fold 
and  her  sallow  complexion  assumed  a  tint  of  deep  yel- 
low. 

"  Marry  7>Iiss  Ogleby  !"  she  exclamied  ;  "  oh  !  Sir 
Peregrine — do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  so  grievously 
deceived  in  a  woman,  whose  fame  and  manners  are 
equally  artificial  and  made  up.  You  speak  of  her 
beauty  and  animation — she  is  a  complete  piece  of  mock- 
ery in  both  ;  the  secret  of  the  former  is  hid  in  the  re- 
cesses of  her  toilette  boxes ;  and  as  for  the  latter,  her 
forced  hysterical  giggle  is  about  as  similar  to  the  light- 
hearted  laughter  of  youth,  as  the  tones  of  a  cracked 
hurdy-gurdy  to  the  notes  of  the  mounting  lark ;  she  is 
a  sort  of  flying-f^si,  hovering  between  the  old  and  the 


matcii-bheakiag.  175 

young,  and  disowned  by  both,  and  the  affectation  of 
juvenility  whicli  she  displays  in  her  dress  and  manner 
might  excite  our  pity,  were  it  not  converted  into  con- 
tempt by  the  knowledge  that  her  apparently  supera- 
bundant spirits  and  hilarity,  in  reality,  mask  a  dread- 
ful temper.  If  you  must  marry  a  fray,  showy  woman, 
Sir  Perejri'in-1  althoiigh,  for  my  part,  I  think  you  had 
njuch  better  select  a  steady,  well-informed,  sober  per- 
son, I  would  rather  advise  you  to  choose  a  wife  who 
actually  j)ossesses  the  cliarms  and  vivacity  of  youth, 
tlian  one  who  presents  a  melancholy  withered  carica- 
ture of  them." 

The  violent  piiillippics  of  INIiss  I\Ialford  and  ^licS 
Onrleby  against  each  other  may  be  accounted  for  when 
we  consider  that  they  v^•erc  very  intimate  friends  ;  and 
it  is  immeasurably  more  provoking  to  behold  an  inti- 
n)ale  friend  called  to  honor  than  a  stranger.  The  au- 
thoress of  "  Our  Village"  observes,  that  "juxta-posi- 
tion  is  a  great  sharpener  of  rivalry,"  and  this  is  seen  in 
places  as  well  as  in  persons.  Brighton  abhors  the 
dullness  of  Worthing,  and  Worthing  is  scandalized  at 
the  dir^j^ipation  of  Brighton.  Ramsgate  used  to  be 
horrorficd  at  the  vulgarity  of  ^largate  ;  and  Margate, 
to  retort  on  the  stillness  and  formality  of  Ramsgate  ; 
but  now,  thanks  to  cheap  steamboat  fares  and  tlis  ab- 
sence of  picr-dues,  Ramsgate  rivals  Margate  in  its  pro- 
miscuous company,  and  they  must  both  submit  to  bow 
their  heads,  "like  a  lily  drooping."  beneath  the  aristo- 
cratical  sneers  of  Broadstairs.  Hastings  dilates  on  the 
unfinished  buildings  and  uncomfortable  aspect  of  .St. 
Leonard's,  and  St.  Leonard's  satirizes  the  narrow 
streets  and  dingy  lodging-Jiouses  of  Hastings.  In  the 
same  way,  it  is  unspeakably  trying  to  the  temper  of 
the  grnerality  of  ladies,  to  behold  a  cousin  or  a  partic- 
ular I'ricnd  contract  a  very  advantageous  m.arriage,  al- 
thougli  a  mere  acquaintance  may  form  one  much  more 
f).  Without  occasioning  any  thing  beyond  a  momentary 
tiiriil  of  envy  and  dissaiisfac'.iou. 


176  JIATCH-BREAKING. 

But  all  this  time  Miss  Malford  is  violently  fanning 
herself,  with  an  immense  antique  green  fan,  and  Sir 
Peregrine  is  maliciously  suffering  her  to  remain  in  sus- 
pense.  At  length  he  spoke.  "  My  good  lady,"  he  said, 
"  I  never  told  you  that  I  had  heen  making  an  offer  of 
marriage  to  Miss  Ogleby,  nor  have  I  the  least  intention 
of  doing  so.  I  have  the  highest  respect  for  3^our  good 
sense  and  judgment,"  (here  Miss  Malford  took  off  her 
spectacles,  cleared  her  brow,  and  tried  to  look  very 
amiable,)  "  and  I  am  therefore  most  happy  to  tell  you 
that  I  am  going  to  do  what  you  have  recommended, 
namely,  to  unite  myself  to  the  reality  of  youth,  beauty, 
and  vivacity,  instead  of  the  mockery  of  th^ni ;  by  this 
time  to-morrow,  I  hope  to  be  the  accepted  lover  of  Rose 
Stapleton." 

Sir  Peregrine  again  performed  a  quiet  exit,  and  Miss 
I\Ialford  was  left,  like  her  iTiend,  to  the  torments  of  re- 
gret and  mortification.  Sir  Peregrine,  meanwhile, 
proceeded  (o  Mrs.  Stapleton's  house,  begged  a  private 
audience  with  that  lad}',  and  solicited  in  due  form,  the 
hand  of  her  beautiful  daughter.  Mrs.  Stapleton  was 
very  much  surprised  and  pleased  ;  she  assured  the  baro- 
net, with  truth,  that  he  might  rely  on  her  consent  and 
best  exertions  in  his  behalf,  but  she  could  not  answer 
for  Rose ;  and  v/ith  some  difficulty  she  "prevailed  on  him 
to  leave  the  house  without  an  audience  with  his  fair  en- 
slaver, since  she  felt  aware  iJiat  a  little  (or  perhaps  not 
a  little)  preparation,  argument,  and  expostulation, 
must  be  expended  on  Rose,  to  induce  her  to  accept  the 
baronet  as  favorably  as  a  young  lady,  possessing  a  dow- 
er  of  two  thousand  pounds,  ought  to  receive  a  gentle, 
man  of  seven  thousand  a  year,  who  offers  a  carte 
hlapxhc  as  to  settlements. 

Rose  and  her  mother  had  a  long  conversation  that 
evening,  and  the  result  v/as  creditable  to  both.  Rose 
forcibly,  but  calmly  and  respectfully  represented  to 
Mrs.  Staplelon  the  extent  of  the  sacrifice  which  she 
should  be  making  in  accepting  a  partner  for  life  so  dis- 


3IATCII.B11EAKII\'G.  177 

pioporlionecl  lo  her  iji  a^e,  and  so  uncongenial  lo  her 
in  taylc,  as  Sir  rcregrine  ;  she  professed  herself  ha])j)y 
and  contented  with  her  present  situation,  and  promis- 
in.T  never  to  marry  witliout  her  mother's  full  consent 
a:id  approbation,  entreated  tliat  she  Vvould  kindly  suf- 
fer her  in  this  and  every  other  instance,  to  exercise  the 
I»riv:li"fje  of  rejection. 

Mrs.  .Srapleloii  made  some  faint  attempts  to  cxcilc 
the  ambition  of  Rose  to  be  mistreps  of  two  carriages,  a 
train  of  servant:-,  and  a  service  of  plate  ;  but  the  alter- 
nate tears  and  smiles  of  licr  beloved  daughter  prevent- 
ed her  from  expressing  hcrr  elf  with  any  severity,  and  a 
kind,  courteous,  but  decided  refusal,  was  conveyed  to 
►Sir  Pcregtinc  the  following  morning. 

iS'ext  lo  the  pleasure  of  acceptmg  a  baronet,  Mrs. 
Stapleton  felt  the  honor  of  rejectuigone  was  to  be  reck- 
oned, and  she  could  not  resist  the  ten)ptation  of  call- 
ing on  her  friends,  tlie  spinsters,  to  relate  the  triumphs 
of  Rose's  charms,  and  to  deplore  Rose's  romantic  deter- 
mination of  only  marrying  for  love.  They  were  de- 
lighted with  the  intelligence.  Rose  Staplctoii's  matri- 
monial prospects  were  still  capable  of  being  marred — 
tihc  was  not  at  present  to  be  raised  above  the  reach  of 
llieir  malice  ;  besides,  they  felt  no  doubt  that  Sir  Pere- 
grine would  rescn.t  her  refusal  of  his  proposals  as  v/arm- 
ly  and  deeply  as  an  elderly  gentleman  usually  resents 
the  rufusai  of  a  juvenile  beauty,  and  that  tiie  gaities 
and  festivities  of  the  hail  would  henceforth  be  withlicld 
from  Mrs.  Staplcton  and  her  daughter — no  trifling  de- 
jn-ivation,  wlien  it  is  considered  that  Sir  Peregrine  was 
frequently  in  the  habit  of  ranking  stylish  young  men 
among  his  vi;-itcr.s.  He  was  fond  of  the  society  of  the 
young  and  cheerful  of  his  own  sex,  and  he  never  found 
any  difficulty  in  obtaining  it,  having  a  capital  pack  of 
hounds,  good  preserves  of  gan^c,  a  cellar  of  fine  old 
wines,  and  a  potent  worker  of  culinary  wonders,  whoiu 
3Iiss  Maiford  very  delicately  and  scrupulously  desig- 
nated by  the  title  oC male  cook.  Sir  Pcrcgri!:e.  hovvev- 
•     15 


178  MATCII-BEEAKLNG. 

er,  did  not  gratify  the  ill-nature  of  the  spinsters  by  any 
indulgence  of  his  own.  The  refusal  of  Rose  was 
couched  in  terms  of  such  gentleness,  sweetness,  and 
gratitude,  that  he  was  angry  with  himself  instead  of 
her,  very  candidly  settled  in  his  mind  that  he  was  "  an 
old  fool  for  his  trouble,"  and  that  Rose  deserved  a  much 
better  husband.  Accordingly,  after  a  few  embarrassed 
interA-iews,  every  thing  went  on  its  usual  track,  and 
the  intimacy  between  Sir  Peregrine  and  the  Stapletons 
was  neither  more  nor  less  than  before  the  loss  of  his 
heart  and  the  refusal  of  liis  hand  took  place.  .Sir  Pere- 
grine felt  rather  mortified  that  he  had  in  the  exube- 
rance of  his  hopes  confided  the  secret  of  his  attachment 
to  Miss  Ogleby  and  Miss  Malford,  since  he  doubted  not 
that  they  would  industriously  publish  his  disappoint- 
ment throughout  Allingham.  Accordingly  he  deter- 
mined to  be  beforehand  v/ith  them,  and  related  every 
where  their  misapprehension  of  his  meaning,  and  their 
calumnious  strictures  on  each  other,  in  so  jocose  and 
humorous  a  style,  that  people  forgot  to  laugh  at  him  in 
their  eagerness  to  laugh  at  the  discomfiture  of  his  con- 
fidants. The  spinsters  were  greatly  annoyed  at  the 
publicity  which  this  story  gained.  Neither  of  them 
much  admired  the  knowledge  of  her  friend's  perfidy 
and  double-dealing,  for  they  rated  their  friendship  for 
each  other  at  precisely  its  real  value — a  bond  of  mutual 
convenience,  and  a  means  of  enabling  them  more  rea- 
dily to  annoy  and  mortify  the  rest  of  the  world.  Ac 
cordingly,  as  soon  as  they  found  out  that  they  had  no- 
thing to  fear  from  the  rivalry  of  each  other,  they  be- 
came as  dear  friends  as  ever  ;  but  they  could  not  bear 
the  idea  that  the  wliole  town  of  Allingham  should  be 
as  well  aware  as  themselves  of  the  slender  and  worth- 
less tie  that  united  them,  and,  like  most  persons  fond  of 
ridiculing  others,  they  were  keenly  susceptible  of  ridi- 
cule in  their  own  persons.  They  did  not  suspect  Sir 
Peregrine  of  having  been  the  circulator  of  the  story, 
for  they  unagined  that  he  v/ould  feel  very  tender  in 


MATCH-BRI-AKIXG.  179 

touching  on  the  subject  of  his  rejection,  wliich  was  so 
closely  connected  with  it ;  accordingly  they  imputed 
ihe  whole  of  its  publicity  to  Mrs.  Staplcton  and  her 
daughter,  and  vowed  revenge  against  them.  ]\Irs. 
Stapleton,  poor  woman  1  with  all  her  imputed  world- 
linci^s,  had  no  plans  and  manceuvres  on  her  own  ac- 
count which  they  could  hope  to  baffle ;  her  peace  of 
mind  could  only  be  reached  through  that  of  Rose,  and 
a  dozen  times  a  day  did  the  match-breakers  wish  that 
they  could  see  Rose  Stapklon  warmly  and  devotedly 
attached,  and  have  the  felicity  of  placing  insurmount- 
able obstacles  between  herself  and  her  lover. 

About  three  months  afler  these  events  a  young  man 
of  the  name  of  Saville,  of  pleasing  person  and  gentle- 
manly, although  rather  shy  and  distant  manners,  came 
on  a  visit  to  Sir  Peregrine.  In  Saville's  early  life 
there  was  nothing  either  interesting  or  eventful ;  liis 
family  was  respectable,  but  far  from  rich,  and  at  an 
early  age  his  friends  procured  him  a  situation  in  the 
India  House,  where  he  devoted  Ihe  bloom  of  his  3'outh 
and  (literary  as  well  as  figuratively)  the  light  of  his 
days,  to  a  scries  of  dull  monotonous  duties,  receiving 
the  remuneration  of  a  small  income,  which,  hov/ever, 
had  the  recommendation  of  increasing  ten  pounds 
every  year  ;  and  those  Vvho  have  known  what  it  is  to 
be  many  pounds  the  worse  at  the  end  of  the  year,  may 
allow  that  there  is  some  satisfaction  in  the  certainly 
of  being  even  ten  pounds  the  better.  Saville  also  had 
received  a  few  lifts  from  the  deaths  of  his  seniors  in 
the  course  of  twelve  years,  and  at  the  age  of  thirty 
had  an  income  which  his  friends  considered  a  very 
pretty  one  ;  but  he  pathetically  replied  that  it  was  not 
enough  to  marry  upon,  and  as  thirty  was  a  very  suitable 
a<je  for  marrying^  it  was  a  pity  that  he  had  not  an  in- 
come to  match  with  it. 

If  I  was  inclined  to  digressions,  (and,  by  the  bye,  I 
am  naturally  very  much  inclined  to  them,  although  I 
exercise  my  self-denial  in  keeping  the  evil  propcuLuly 


ISO  I^IATCn-BKEAiaXG. 

in  mbjecticn.)  I  could  make  a  digression  of  several 
pages  on  the  subject  of  the  phra?e  "  an  income  suffi. 
cient  to  marry  upon,"  It  is  just  as  difficult  to  define 
as  that  other  mysterious  phrase,  "  a  lady  of  a  certain 
age."  I  once  knevr  a  young  lady  (portionless  more- 
over) who  made  a  great  merit  of  her  condescension  in 
accepting  the  addresses  of  a  gentleman  with  three 
tliousand  a  year,  because,  she  observed,  she  was  re- 
markably fond  of  a  to'.vn  life,  and  although  three  thou- 
sand a  3"ear  was  a  pretty  income  for  the  country,  it 
would  be  a  paltr}"  stipend  in  London  I  I  also  read  in 
the  biography  of  a  very  excellent  man,  a  love-letter 
which  he  addressed  to  the  lady  to  whom  he  \vas  en- 
gaged, in  vv'hich  he  prudently  warned  her  that,  as  their 
united  incomes  v.'ould  only  amount  to  fifiy-fivc  pounds 
a  year,  she  must  not  set  her  heart  on  the  vanities  and 
luzuries  of  life.  There  are  many  intermediate  grada- 
tions on  which  I  could  enlarge,  but  not  to  keep  my 
readers  in  suspense,  I  will  inform  them  that  .Saville's 
income  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking  vvas  exactly 
four  hundred  a  year. 

Saviile  was  not  particularly  popular  with  the  ladies  ; 
although  his  feelings  were  warm,  his  manners  were 
reserved ;  and  although  he  was  sensible  and  well-in- 
formed, he  vras  deficient  in  off-hand  conversation  and 
!-.howy  accomplishments.  A  certain  Miss  Anna  Ma- 
ria Riley,  however,  the  sixth  of  a  family  of  ten  unmar- 
ried daughters,  won  his  heart,  and  received  his  atten- 
tions most  kindly  and  favorabl}' — told  him  that  she 
could  never  love  but  once,  and  had  never  loved  before 
— that  she  was  an  excellent  manager — that  she  de- 
ppised  money — that  she  had  no  wants,  and  that  she 
thought  four  hundred  a  year  a  very  a.mple  income. 
Saviile  was  enchanted  at  her  atTcction,  moderation, 
and  disinterestedness,  and  the  relations  on  both  sides 
liad  been  spoken  to  on  the  subject,  when  suddenly  a 
wealthy,  portly  citizen,  knowing  nothing  of  what  had 
happened,  proposed  for  Miss  Anna  ?ylaria.     She  wrote 


?iIATCir. BREAKING.  181 

.ir.  inur.cdiate  answer  of  acceptance  to  him,  sent  a 
iarewell  letter  to  Saville,  telling  him  that  she  had  re- 
solved on  sacrificing  herself  for  the  good  of  her  family, 
and  immediately  drove  to  a  fashionable  milliner's  at 
the  west  end  of  the  town,  where  her  nine  sisters  or- 
dered nine  blue  silk  dresses  and  nine  white  satin  hats, 
decorated  with  nine  forget-me-not  garlands,  and  v/here 
she  herself  ordered— more  things  than  I  will  weary 
the  patience  of  my  readers  by  enumerating.  In  one 
respect  she  was  consistent ;  she  had  always  told  Sa- 
ville that  she  despised  money,  and  no  one  who  wit- 
nessed  her  lavish  expenses  at  the  milliner's  could  have 
doubted  the  fact ! 

Saville  rated  the  loss  of  this  unfeeling,  mercenary 
girl  at  a  much  higher  value  than  she  deserved.  He 
had  a  serious  illness  in  consequence,  and  when  he 
recovered,  betook  himself  to  the  monotonous  labors  of 
his  vocation,  fully  resolved  to  forswear  "  the  light  that 
lies  in  woman's  eyes"  forever.  An  unexpected  event, 
however,  was  to  occur.  An  eccentric  distant  relation 
of  Saville's  died,  and  bequeathed  to  him  the  whole  of 
a  large  fortune.  Anna  Maria  had  been  some  time 
siiarried,  otherwise  she  would  have  undoubtedly  owned 
ihe  omnipotence  of  her  early  love,  even  at  the  church- 
door  ;  but  Mrs.  Riley  overwhelmed  him  with  invita- 
tions to  family-dinners  and  carpet-dances  in  Guilford- 
strect,  and  told  him  that  Maiy  Jane,  her  seventh 
daughter,  was  far  prettier,  cleverer,  and  more  amiabl.; 
than  ever  Anna  Maria  had  been,  and  that  it  had  al- 
ways been  her  own  private  opinion  that  Mary  Jane 
was  ten  limes  better  suited  to  liim  as  a  wife.  Saville, 
however,  resolutely  repulsed  the  advances,  not  only  of 
IMary  Jane,  but  of  fifty  Fannys  and  Louisas  of  his  ac- 
quaintance, who  appeared  resolved  to  atone  for  all 
their  former  coldness  and  indifference  by  the  extreme 
of  attention  and  kindness.  He  absolutely  blushed  for 
the  whole  sex,  when  he  v.-as  oppressed  by  the  invita- 
tion cards  and  kind  looks  and  speeclies  of  the  mothers 
15* 


182  ?IATCII-BREAKING. 

and  dauglitera,  who,  a  few  monthp  before,  had  shunned 
him  as  a  nonentity,  or  cut  him  as  a  detrimental.  He 
felt  a  thorough  contempt  and  distaste  for  them  all,  and 
was  only  anxious  to  get  out  of  their  way.  He  had 
given  up  his  situation  in  the  India  House,  and  there- 
fore he  had  no  tie  to  London,  and  felt  much  tempted 
to  accept  a  warm  invitation  to  stay  at  the  country  seat 
of  Sir  Peregrine  Balling,  to  v.'hom  he  had  been  intro- 
duced at  a  friend's  house.  Accordingly  he  wrote  to 
the  worthy  baronet,  telling  him  all  his  circumstances 
and  feelings,  and  all  his  dread  of  mercenary  and  hus- 
band-hunting  beauties,  and  earnestly  requested  that  he 
would  never  mention  to  any  one  at  Allingham  the  se- 
cret of  his  newly  acquired  wealth,  or  the  resignation  of 
his  situation,  but  v;ould  simply  introduce  him  as  v/hat 
he  lately  was,  a  young  man  who  had  been  laboring 
twelve  years  to  gain  four  hundred  per  annum  in  the 
India  House. 

The  baronet  laughed  heartily  at  the  delicate  and 
nervous  susceptibility  of  his  young  friend,  but  promised 
secrecy,  and  as  Allingham  v/as  a  hundred  miles  from 
London,  and  Saville  vras  not  in  a  rank  of  society  to 
have  his  changes  of  fortune  and  situation  chronicled 
in  the  nev/spapers,  it  appeared  likely  that  he  would 
enjoy  his  wish  of  being  considered  as  a  poor  man  by 
the  "  womankind"  of  the  neighborliood. 

The  very  day  after  Savillc's  arrival,  however,  in 
v.-alking  down  the  High  Street  with  Sir  Peregrine, 
tliey  encountered  Miss  Ogleby,  who,  when  she  was  in 
London,  about  a  year  ago,  had  met  Saville  at  the  lii- 
ley's ;  she  eagerly  seized  his  hand,  and  congratulated 
him  on  his  acquisition  of  fortune,  an  event  which,  she 
said,  had  been  communicated  to  her  a  short  time  ago 
in  a  letter  from  her  dear  young  friend,  Mary  Jane  Ri. 
ley.  Saville  could  have  spared  her  presence  and  lier 
congratulations,  but  he  sav/  that  he  had  no  resource  but 
to  be  extremely  civil  to  her,  and  thereby  engage  her  in 
his  interests  ;  accordingly  he  a?kcd  her  if  she  had  men- 


MATCH-BREAKING.  183 

tinned  the  circumstance  to  any  one  in  Allingham,  and 
when  she  replied  in  the  negative,  earncptly  requested 
her  to  keep  it  secret  during  his  stay.  This  Miss  Ogle- 
by  instantaneously  promised,  and  with  the  fullest  in- 
tention  of  performing  her  promise  ;  she  never  liked  to 
talk  a'oout  any  one's  good  fortune  so  much  as  their  bad, 
and  the  good  fortune  of  .Savillc  would  have  been  par- 
ticularly disagreeable  to  her,  because  she  felt  that,  as 
soon  as  Mrs.  Stapleton  became  acquainted  with  it,  she 
would  invite  him  to  her  house,  throv/  Rose  in  his  way, 
and  very  likely  completely  console  him  for  the  loss  of 
Miss  Anna  Maria  Riley.  Miss  Oglcby  remembered 
that  Shakespeare,  that  wonderful  master  of  the  human 
heart,  b.ad  made  Romeo's  ardent  passion  for  Juliet  im- 
mediately succeed  to  disappointment  in  Rosalind  ;  and 
she  apprehended  that  tlio  artless,  blooming,  and  unso- 
phisticated beauty  of  Allingham,  might,  by  a  similar 
j)rocpss,  banish  from  Saville's  memory,  the  artificial, 
over-dressed,  scmi-fme  lady  of  Bloombury.  Miss  Oglc- 
by only  departed  from  her  bond  of  concealment  so  far 
as  to  reveal  the  circumstances  of  the  case  to  Miss  Mai- 
ford,  who  eagerly  united  with  her  in  the  expediency 
of  never  breathing  them  to  any  person  in  Allingham, 
especially  the  Stapletons. 

The  next  day,  Miss  Ogleby  called  on  Mrs.  Staple- 
ton,  and  mentioned,  with  seeming  carelessness,  that 
Sir  Peregrine  had  a  very  shy,  stupid  young  man  stay- 
ing with  him,  whom  she  had  met  in  London,  and  she 
forthwith  did  the  honors  of  his  small  situation  in  the 
India  House,  and  his  rejection  by  Anna  ?vlaria  Riley, 
adding  that  "  it  was  very  silly  of  him  to  be  breaking 
his  heart  about  the  matter,  for  that  dear  Anna  Maria 
had  never  given  him  the  least  encouragement,  and 
was  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long  with  Mr.  Hobson, 
who  had  the  spirit  of  a  prince,  and  would  look  ten 
years  younger  than  he  was,  if  it  were  7U;t  that  he  Avas 
so  amazingly  stout."  The  ladies  were  not  prepossessed 
in  Saville's  favor  by  this  account  of  him  ;  and  although 


184  MATCH-BP.  BAKING. 

they  were  in  his  company  three  times  the  next  week, 
there  appeared  no  chance  of  a  close  intimacy  between 
him  and  Rose.  Miss  Ogleby  was  constantly  at  her 
side,  rallying  Saville  whenever  he  approached  in  no 
very  measured  terms  ou  his  iil-fate  in  having  been 
crossed  in  love,  and  making  delicately  playful  allusions 
to  green  willov/,  pining  swains,  and  "  Barbara  Allen's 
cruelty." 

Saville,  however,  was  as  completely  fascinated  with 
Rose  as  the  spinsters  could  have  feared,  but  he  v/as 
timid,  silent,  and  easily  kept  at  a  distance.  Mrs.  Sta- 
pleton  treated  him  with  all  the  freezing  constrained 
civility  which  she  considered  the  proper  portion  of  a 
young  man  possessing  so  very  small  a  life-income  that 
it  would  be  impossible  even  to  squeeze  a  settlement  out 
of  it  in  the  shape  of  life-insurance,  and  Rose  felt  no 
great  interest  in  the  victim  of  the  cruelty  of  a  Guild- 
ford street  Anna  Maria,  who  had  refused  him  in  favor 
of  a  fat  elderly  common-councilman!  Rose  and  Sa- 
ville, however,  were  destined  to  become  better  ac- 
quainted. 

Every  year  the  town  of  Allingham  was  enlivened  by 
a  visit  from  the  county  yeomanry,  and  they  were  cer- 
tainly very  amusing,  not  from  the  similarity  of  their 
movements  to  those  of  the  military,  but  from  their 
utter  dissimilitude  ;  the  heroes  themselves,  however, 
did  not  perform  their  parts  so  badly,  but  the  horses, 
who  were  many  of  them  in  the  habit  of  drawing  wag- 
ons and  market-carts,  were  singularly  obstinate  and 
intractable  ;  they  stood  still  when  they  were  required 
to  move,  and  moved  when  it  was  in  order  that  they 
should  stand  still,  and  the  manceuvres  and  evolutions 
which  they  were  partly  forced  and  partly  coaxed  to 
execute,  always  produced  a  scene  of  "  most  admired 
disorder."  At  the  conclusion  of  their  visit,  they  fa- 
vored the  inhabitants  of  Allingham  with  a  sham  fight, 
(a  very  sham  one  indeed,)  which  took  place  in  a  large 
field  about  a  mile  from  the  town,  and  it  was  the  cus- 


jrATCII-EREAKING.  185 

tom  for  the  licanty  and  fasliion  of  Allingliam  to  attend, 
to  witnops  thoir  liarmlcss  attacks  and  powerless  dc- 
frnccn.  The  review  was  at  this  time  about  to  take 
place,  and  Sir  Peregrine  Iiad  promised  to  convey  Mrs. 
Stapleton  and  her  daupjlitcr  to  the  scene  of  action. 
Accordingly  his  barouche  and  curricle  drove  up  to  the 
door,  and  Mrs.  Slaplcton  found  that  she  v/as  expected 
to  occupy  a  scat  in  the  former,  with  Sir  Peregrine  and 
a  married  couple  in  the  neighborhood,  while  Savillc 
was  to  have  the  pleasing  oflice  of  driving  Rose  in  the 
curricle.  It  was  too  late  to  make  any  objection  to  this 
plan,  and  the  parties  proceeded  on  their  destination. 
The  review  was  rather  more  ridiculous  than  ever.  The 
young  pair  were  both  amazingly  entertained  by  it,  and 
nothing  equalizes  and  makes  people  sociable  like  a  mu- 
tual joke.  Rose  had  dazzling  teeth,  an  enchanting 
dimple,  and  also  that  prime  attraction,  a  sv%-ect- toned, 
musical  laugh.  A  pretty  girl  is  never  more  fascinating 
than  when  she  is  laughing,  provided  always  that  her 
laughter  be  neither  silly,  coarse,  nor  sarcastic.  Saville 
cxj)rcG?cd  much  wonder  at  seeing  both  t*he  contending 
armies  with  pistols  in  their  hands.  Rose  informed  him 
that  on  the  preceding  year  they  had  muskets,  but  that 
the  elTcct  of  the  first  volley  of  firing  on  the  horses  was 
such,  that  when  the  smoke  cleared  away  it  was  discov- 
ered that  every  rider  on  the  field  was  dismounted.  En- 
sign Suckling  lost  a  false  tooth  in  the  fall ;  Captain 
Papkin's  nose  bled  for  ten  minutes,  though  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  bevy  of  old  maids,  prescribing  cold  keys, 
and  writing-paper  ;  and  Colonel  Tim's  face  vv-as  se- 
verely scratched,  and  his  wig  throvv'n  down  and  tram- 
pled upon  by  the  crowd  ;  the  rest  of  the  unhorsed  war- 
riors ran  wildfy  about  the  field  for  above  half  an  hour, 
catching  their  chargers,  and  many,  after  all,  caught 
that  of  tiieir  neighbor  by  mistake.  Consequently  it  v.-as 
resolved,  on  tlie  next  review,  to  have  nothing  but  pis. 
lols  ;  and  the  pistols  on  the  present  occasion  were  of  so 
delicately  diminutive  a  size,  that  when  a  dozen  of  them 


180  MATCH-BREAKING. 

were  fired  at  once,  (it  was  not  considered  safe  or  ex- 
pedient  to  discharge  a  greater  number,)  the  report 
somewhat  resembled  that  occasioned  by  the  artillery 
of  the  "  Marvellous  Fleas."  Happily  nobody  was  dis- 
mounted ;  the  horses,  unused  to  the  "  pride,  pomp,  and 
circumstance  of  glorious  war,*'  certainly  curvetted, 
reared,  and  snorted  most  fearfully,  but  their  riders  held 
firmly  by  their  manes  ;  and,  v.'ith  the  exception  of  a 
few  hysterical  shrieks  from  the  old  maids  in  the  imme- 
diale  vicinity,  the  firing  passed  off  very  quietly. 

Saville's  spirits  were  exhilarated  by  the  fineness  of 
the  morning,  the  novelty  of  the  scene,  and  the  society 
of  the  lovely  girl  beside  him  ;  hs  became  very  agreea- 
ble, and  raised  himself  considerably  in  the  opinion  of 
his  fair  companion. 

Two  days  afterwards,  Saville  had  anotiicr  opportu- 
nity of  being  in  company  with  Rose,  without  being 
haunted  by  the  intervening  shadows  of  the  match- 
breakers.  The  married  couple,  who  occupied  a  part 
of  Sir  Peregrine's  barouche  on  the  occasion  of  the  re- 
view, had  organized  an  impromptu  pic-nic  party  for  the 
next  day  but  one,  into  which  the  lady  vehemently  pro- 
tested Miss  Ogleby  and  Miss  Malford  should  not  be 
admitted,  for  she  had  every  reason  to  suspect  that  they 
had  spoiled  a  match  for  her  youngest  sister,  by  giving 
the  irresolute  admirer  long  and  exaggerated  details  of 
one  of  her  former  flirtations.  The  day  (probably  ow- 
ing to  the  very  short  notice  that  had  been  given  of  the 
pic-nic  party)  was  splendidly  fine.  Rose  and  Saville 
were  in  intimate  association  during  the  whole  of  it ; 
ihey  walked  home  arm-in-arm,  and  before  the  close  of 
the  evening  the  faithless  heroine  of  Bloomsbury  was 
forgiven  by  Saville,  and  forgotten  by  Rose.  Mrs.  Sta- 
pleton,  however,  now  began  to  look  very  avv'ful  and 
disapproving,  and  took  leave  of  Saville  with  marked 
coldness.  He  complained  of  this  to  Sir  Peregrine,  and 
the  good-natured  baronet,  Vv'ho  by  this  time  was  quite 
cared  of  his  passing  passion  for  Rose,  earnestly  recom- 


MATCH-BREAKING.  187 

mended  his  young  friend  to  make  public  at  once  tlie 
Btatc  of  his  pecuniary  circumstances,  and  bohlly  stand 
forward  a  candidate  for  tlie  ^ood  graces  of  botii  mother 
and  daughter ;  but  Saville  felt  all  liis  horror  of  ma- 
noeuvring mammas  and  mercenary  young  ladies  return 
upon  him,  and  he  did  not  rest  till  he  had  exacted  a  fresh 
j)roraise  from  Six*  Peregrine  to  preserve  his  secret  invi- 
olate. 

The  day  after  the  picnic  the  town  of  Allingham  v.-as 
full  of  the  flirtation  between  Mr.  Saville  and  Miss  iSta- 
pleton,  and  the  spinsters  trembled  with  fear  and  envy 
at  the  tidings.  Miss  Ogleby  inunediatcly  called  on 
Mrs.  Stapleton,  and  so  forcibly  dwelt  on  the  demerits 
of  Savillc's  small  income,  so  earnestly  recapitulated 
Mrs.  Riley's  horror  lest  "  poor  dear  x\nna  Maria  should 
be  induced  to  tliink  of  hinV"  and  so  courteously  dilated 
on  the  immeasurably  superior  pretentions  to  make  a 
good  match  possessed  by  "  sweet  lovely  Roec"  beyond 
the  aforesaid  "  poor  dear  Anna  Maria,"  tliat  Mrs.  Sta- 
pleton  worked  herself  up  to  a  pitch  of  thorough  disdain 
and  hard-heartedness.  Saville  called  on  her  about  an 
liour  after  the  departure  of  the  Match-breaker,  and  just 
as  he  entered  the  drawing  room,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  retreating  white  muslin  dress  of  the  banished  Rose. 
Mrs.  Stapleton  received  him  with  a  frown,  answered 
liim  in  monosyllables,  and  looked  at  her  watch  seven 
times  during  the  ten  minutes  to  which  he  limited  his 
slay. 

Poor  Saville  was  deeply  wounded  and  disconcerted. 
As  Sir  Peregrine  had  company  that  day,  he  had  no  op. 
porlunity  of  speaking  to  him  till  the  ensuing  morning  ; 
but  at  breakfast  he  made  known  to  him  his  intention  of 
quitting  Allingham  the  next  day,  never  to  return  to  it 
while  Rose  remained  Miss  Stapleton.  Sir  Peregrine  in 
vain  attempted  to  combat  the  romantic  high  flown  no- 
tions of  his  young  friend  ;  and  after  a  time  suffered  him 
to  pursue  hii;  own  course,  and  to  make  preparations  for 
ills  departure, 


188  MATCil-BREAKlA'G. 

All  now  went  on  most  prosperously  for  ihc  match- 
breakers  ;  tJicy  had  done  enough  ;  all  that  remained  fur 
them  was  to  keep  quiet.  Whether  they  did  keep  quiet 
or  not  shall  be  disclosed  to  the  reader  in  good  time. 
Saville  had  resolved  not  to  pay  any  farewell  visits  to 
Allinghani ;  but  on  second  thoughts  he  determined  to 
call  on  Miss  Ogleby,  whose  fidelity  in  keeping  his  se. 
cret  demanded  sonie  little  return  of  attention  from  him. 
He  knocked  at  her  door.  Her  footboy  replied  that  she 
was  not  at  home,  but  (knowing  the  predilection  of  his 
mistress  for  handsome  young  men)  begged  Saville  to 
walk  in  and  wait  her  return,  which,  he  o.ssurcd  hijn, 
would  take  place  in  a  few  minutes.  Saville  declined, 
and  v/alkcd  to  the  end  of  the  street ;  but  presently  he 
rcilected  that  he  should  like  to  caution  Miss  Ogleby  not 
even  after  his  departure  to  ren-cal  his  secret,  for  he  had 
a.  vivid  recollection  of  the  v/hole  pack  of  invitation 
cards  which  Mrs.  Riley  had  lately  inflicted  on  him, 
and  feared  that  .Mrs.  Stapleton  might  despatch  some 
tenderly-apologetic  billet  to  London  after  him,  v.'hich 
might  put  his  fortitude  to  the  test.  He  returned  to  the 
door,  but  did  not  again  knock  at  it.  The  footboy,  wh  j 
Vi-as  a  marvellously  pmall  person,  engaged  on  marvel- 
lously small  wages,  did  most  things  in  a  very  clumsy 
manner,  and  instead  of  shutting  the  door  afier  Saville, 
had  left  it  ajar.  Consequently  he  entered  unseen  by  any 
body  into  Miss  Ogleby's  front  parlor,  there  to  av^ait  the 
return  of  its  mistress. 

There  was  little  amusement  for  my  hero  during  the 
period  of  his  solitude.  He  looked  at  Miss  Ogleby's 
frame  of  worsted  work,  (a  sprawling  eagle,  in  all  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow,  intended  for  an  ottoman.)  held 
a  brief  dialogue  v.'ith  her  parrot,  which  speedily  fell  to 
the  ground  on  account  of  the  total  deficiency  of  repar- 
tee in  the  feathered  colloquist,  and  turned  over  a  music 
book  which  was  filled  with  the  fac^hionable  songs  of 
Miss  Ogleby's  girlhood :  "  The  Garland  of  Love," 
*  The  Mischievous  Ecc,"  "  When  Time,  who  steals 


MATrii-n?vr:AT:ixr,.  180 

onr  yoarp  away,"  •'  Said  a  Smile  to  a  Tear,"  •'  Vvill  yen 
corrn"  to  the  Cower  ?"  «fcc. 

Tired  of'thi;;  iavestigatio)!  he  proceeded  i;ironc;}i  the 
nniall  Iblding-donrs  to  tlic  hack  parlor,  in  liojies  ol' 
amusing  hiniseh^  with  Mir-s  Ogr]c])y'K  liooks  ;  hut,  alas  I 
iVIiss  Ojijleby  never  read  any  novels  but  old  ones,  and 
never  read  ar.y  thing  l)uL  the  womt  among  the  old. 
iShe  had  aho'.il  a  dozen  sets  of  these,  Vv'hioh  f;hc  had 
bought  very  cheap  from  a  circulating  library  selling 
otT,  and  whcii  she  had  finished  them,  she  read  them 
through  again  with  jn.st  as  much  pleasure  and  profit  as 
{:he  had  derived  from  their  first  perusal.  Savijle  toolc 
down  llie  first  volume  of  a  thin  yellow  dirty  novel, 
called  "  Adaliza,  or  tiie  Amiable  Artifice,"  shut  the 
foliling  donrs,  and  rat  himself  down  calmly  to  his  stud- 
ies on  the  faded  amber  sofa  in  the  back  parlor.  Saville 
had  frequently  v/ondered  v.hat  could  be  the  mysterious 
pecret  possessed  by  the  celebrated  Dr.  Gardiner,  b}' 
vv'hich  he  enables  people  to  go  to  sleep  whenever  they 
please  ;  but  he  had  not  perused  more  than  twenty 
jiages,  v.'hen  he  ma;le  up  li'ui  mind  that  it  must  be  by 
the  perusal  of  an  old  novel,  for,  althoiigh  by  no  means 
of  a  lethargic  nature,  and  although  Miss  Ogleby's  hard 
high  sofa  was  anything  but  inviting  to  repose,  he  grad- 
ually sank  back  in  his  seat,  closed  his  eyes,  and  fell 
back  into  a  deep  slumber.  He  had  been  asleep  about 
hair  an  hour,  when  he  was  awakened  by  the  shrill 
Innd  voice  of  Miss  Ogleb}''  in  the  next  room,  and  soon 
ascertained  that  hor  companion  was  Miss  i\Ialf  )rd  ;  he 
was  on  the  point  of  opening  the  folding-doors  and  an- 
nouncing himself,  when  he  licard  his  ov/n  name  men- 
tioned, and  to  his  great  horror,  Miss  Malford  eoollj' 
and  unhesitatingly  expressed  her  great  satisfaction  at 
having  found  herself  able  exactly  to  imitate  his  hand- 
writing. .Saville  remained,  as  the  author  of  Adaliza 
would  liave  raid,  "  rooted  to  the  ground  ;"  the  idea  of 
forgery  instantly  occurred  to  his  mind — he  had  a  large 
sum  Iving  at  his  banker's,  a^.d  he  trembled  al  ihe  pros- 


190  JIATCPI-EKKAKIXG. 

pect  before  him.  It  is  very  distressinjr  to  a  man  of 
gallantry  to  contemplate  the  necessity  of  transportincf 
a  lady,  however  delightful  it  may  be  to  be  transported 
by  her. 

"  I  will  read  yon  what  I  have  wric'en  in  Savillc's 
rame,"  said  Mi;-s  Ptlalford  ;  "  I  do  not  think  it  is  a  bad 
love-letter." 

Saville's  fears  now  took  a  contrary  direction  ;  il 
was  evident  that  this  deformed  spinster,  whose  mind 
peemed  to  him  as  distorted  as  her  person,  had  written 
an  offer  of  marriage  to  herself  in  his  narno.  Westmin- 
ster Hall,  coimsellors,  lawyers,  stammering  witnesses, 
and  tittering  spectators,  all  swam  before  his  eyes, 
and  he  valorously  resolved,  like  Mr.  Pickwick,  of  im- 
mortal memory,  that  he  would  rather  go  to  jail  than 
pay  a  farthing  of  awarded  damages.  Presently,  how- 
ever, he  had  reason  to  exonerate  Miss  Malford  from 
any  personal  designs  on  him  ;  for  when  she  read  aloud 
the  letter,  which  was  indeed  a  proposal  of  marriage, 
it  appeared  that  he  apostrophized  the  ladj'  addressed, 
as  "young  and  beautiful;"  terms  wliich  the  utmost 
excess  of  huniaii  vanity  could  never  have  enabled  Miss 
Malford  to  apply  to  herself.  At  tlie  conclusion,  he 
(or  rather  his  double)  candidly  confessed  that  his  an- 
nual income  only  amounted  to  four  hundred  pounds, 
"rising"  ten  pounds  yearly,  in  the  India  House,  audit 
was  signed,  "  Your  faithful  and  devoted,  John  Sa- 
ville." 

"  So  far,  so  good,"  thought  Saville  ;  "  this  letter 
cannot  be  intended  to  form  the  ground  work  of  a  breach 
of  promise  of  marriage  trial,  or  I  should  have  been 
made  frankly  to  plead  guilty  to  my  large  independent 
fortune  ;  but  what  purpose  can  it  be  intended  for  ?" 

"  You  have  imitated  Saville's  handwriting  very  suc- 
cessfully," said  Miss  Ogleby. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Miss  Malford,  "  but  I  found  it  by  no 
means  difficult.  Lavatcr  truly  enough  says,  '  that  the 
disposition  is  indicated  by  the  handwriting;'  now  Sa- 


3Iatcii-]:;;eakl\g.  191 

villc  is  of  an  exceedingly  weak,  bending,  timid  nature, 
nothing  masculine  or  decided  about  him,  and  bis  neat 
{'ormal  handwriting  is  one  that  any  female  could  easi- 
ly imitate." 

Poor  ^^aville  !  he  quailed  under  this  double-barrelled 
attack  on  his'characfer  and  handwriting,  and  fervent- 
ly wished  that  Miss  Malford  would  leave  both  of  them 
alone. 

"  I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  your  judgment,  my 
dear  friend,"  said  Miss  Ogleby,  (for  when  these  ladies 
were  mutually  concerned  in  any  plot  of  mischief,  they 
were  as  affectionate  as  do%'es  to  each  other,)  "  but  I 
confess  I  hardly  sec  the  policy  of  addressing  an  offer 
of  marriage  in  Saville's  name  to  Rose  Stapleton — it 
seems  to  mc  a  scheme  more  likely  to  make  a  match 
than  to  break  one." 

Saville's  heart  beat  quickly  at  the  "  one  loved  name," 
and  he  felt  greatly  relieved  that  his  malicious  neigh, 
bors  had  not  thought  proper  to  make  him  offer  his 
heart  and  iiand  to  some  pastry-cook's  high-priestess, 
or  milliner's  show-girl. 

"Why,  n^.y  love,"  answered  Miss  Malford,  "you 
have  repeatedlv  agreed  with  me  that  Rose  Stapleton  is 
evidently  attached  to  Saville,  and  that  her  mother  per- 
sonally likes  him  extremely,  and  merely  objects  to  him 
as  a  son-'u-law  on  account  of  the  smallness  of  his  for- 
tune ;  this  is  an  objection  that  you  and  1  know  could 
be  obviated  in  a  moment ;  and  every  day  I  am  on  thorns, 
tearing  either  that  Saville  will  take  leave  of  his  roman- 
tic scrujtles,  and  proclaim  his  riches,  or  that  Sir  Pere- 
grine, who,  with, his  usual  stupid  meanness  of  spirit, 
would  be  delighted  to  see  the  girl  who  had  rejected 
him,  well  married,  will  blab  the  truth  to  the  Staple- 
tons  by  way  of  smoothing  all  objections  to  the  match." 

"  To  be  sure — that  might  happen  any  day,"  said 
.'\Iiss  Ogleby. 

"  Now,"  continued  the  animated  Miss  Malford,  "as 
matters  stand  at  present,  there  is  not  a  doubt  that  Mrs. 


192  MATCII-BKEAKING. 

Staple  lull  will  compel  Rose  to  write  a  refusal,  aud  Sa- 
ville  will  be  so  irritated  tliat  he  will  immediately  set 
out  for  London  ;  of  course  he  will  write  to  them  to  deny 
Iiaving  sent  the  letter,  but  as  thej  believed  it  to  come 
from  him,  the  refusal  will  be  just  as  cutting  to  his  feel- 
ings and  his  vanity  as  if  lie  had  actually  sent  it." 

"But,  arc  you  quite  sure  that  the  olfer  will  be  re- 
fused  ?"  said  Mif-s  Ogleby.  "  xMrs.  Stapleton  is  ridic- 
ulously attached  to  her  daughter,  and  allows  her  to 
have  her  own  way  to  a  shameful  degree — witness  the 
rejection  of  Sir  Peregrine  ;  suppose  Rose  should  coax 
her  mother  into  a  permission  to  accept  the  offer." 

"  I  have  my  counter-plot  read}'  for  that,"  answered 
Miss  Malford.  "  Saville  will  know  that  he  did  not 
write  the  letter,  and  it  must  be  our  business  to  persuade 
him  that  Mrs.  Stapleton  did  ;  you,  in  particular,  may 
be  of  the  most  essential  use — you  must  tell  Saville, 
with  apparent  contrition,  that  you  secretly  disclosed 
to  Mrs.  Stapleton  the  circumstances  of  his  large  pro- 
perty, in  order  to  calm  her  apprehensions  that  Rose 
was  flirting  with  a  detrimental ;  and  the  result  will  be, 
that  he  will  be  so  enraged  and  angry  at  the  idea  of 
having  been  duped  and  imposed  upon,  that  he  will  quit 
AUingham  without  delay  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  sin- 
gle blessedness." 

Saville  could  not  repress  a  deep  hollov/  groan  at  this 
avowed  determination  of  Miss  Malford  to  cast  a  wan- 
ton slander  on  the  fame  of  the  unsuspecting  and  good- 
natured  woman,  for  whom  she  professed  friendship ; 
the  sound  startled  the  conspirators  in  the  front  par- 
lor. 

"  Dear  me,  what  is  that  ?"  said  Miss  Malford  ;  "  it 
seemed  to  come  from  the  next  room." 

"  Nothing  to  alarm  you,  my  dear,"  answered  Miss 
Ogleby  ;  "  I  dare  say  it  is  a  string  of  Mr.  Scrapewell's 
violincello,  which  he  has  sent  to  my  house,  to  be  in 
readiness  for  my  little  musical  luncheon-party  to-mor- 
row." 


MATCH-BREAKING.  193 

All  iJial  now  remains,"  said  Miys  Malfuru,  willi 
renewed  placidity,  "  is  lo  envelope  tlic  letter,  and  seal 
it.  I  HJiall  send  it  to-night  to  the  Slaplctons,  by  a  man 
on  whom  I  can  depend.  I  have  done  hun  some  favorj-', 
and  lie  knows  himself  to  be  in  my  power.  I  shall  di. 
rect  hhn  to  flap  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  merely  ring 
at  the  door,  and  leave  it." 

"  I  can  give  you  rosc-colorcd  wax,"  said  ]\Iiss  Ogle- 
by,  "  and  a  seal  that  will  be  just  the  thing  for  a  love-let- 
ter— the  motto  is,  '  Each  moment  makes  you  dearer.' 
Come  up  to  my  dressing-room,  and  you  will  there  iind 
iny  writing-case." 

Accordingly  the  spinsters  quitted  tlic  front  parlor, 
and  ascended  the  stairs,  and  Saville,  having  first  care- 
fully replaced  "  Adaliza,  or  the  Amiable  Artifice,"  on 
the  shelf,  seized  the  opportunity  to  dart  out  into  the 
street,  and  ruminate  on  the  artifice,  certainly  anything 
but  amiable,  whicli  had  just  come  to  his  knowledge. 
Several  times  in  the  course  of  the  colloquy,  Saville  had 
felt  inclLned  to  burst  out  on  the  spinsters  in  all  the  ma- 
jesty of  an  insulted  and  injured  man,  but  he  thought 
better  on  tlie  subject,  and  remained  quiet.  Some  years 
ago,  Saville  had  been  driving  in  a  gig  wuth  a  friend, 
and  the  horse  took  fright.  Saville,  anxious,  as  he  af- 
terwards expressed  himself,  "  to  know  the  worst  at 
once,"  threw  himself  from  the  gig,  and  received  the 
information  of  which  he  was  desirous,  in  the  shape  of 
numberless  severe  contusions  and  bruises,  which  con- 
fined him  to  the  house  for  several  weeks,  while  his 
friend,  who  was  one  of  the  "  take-things-easy"  class  of 
men,  sat  perfectly  quiet,  and  when  in  the  course  of  a 
few  minutes  the  horse  was  stopped,  was  assisted  from 
his  scat  without  having  had  a  fold  of  his  cravat  rumpled, 
or  a  curl  of  his  hair  disarranged.  Ever  since,  Saville, 
under  circumstances  of  difficulty,  had  been  disposed 
to  wait  patiently,  and  let  things  take  their  course, 
rather  than  to  accelerate  their  progress  by  any  strong 
procccdurc  on  hh  owni)art.  Besides,  to  tell  the  truth, 
16* 


194  3iATCll-i;REAKING. 

Savillc  was  not  particularly  desirous  to  impede  the 
flight  of  the  love-letter  in  question;  if  Rose  should  re- 
fuse him,  he  should  know  his  fate  more  decidedly  than 
he  could  otherwise  have  done,  and  his  pride  would  suf. 
ler  no  wound  from  her  disdain,  since  he  should  then 
immediately  disclaim  the  letter.  Savillc  returned  to 
the  Hall,  and  told  Sir  Peregrine  that  on  reconsidering 
the  matter,  he  should  be  happy  to  avail  himself  of  his 
hospitality  for  a  day  or  two  longer.  The  baronet 
clapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  told  him  lie  was  glad  he 
had  thought  better  of  it,  and  predicted  that  he  should 
yet  see  him  and  the  prett}'  Rose  -Staplcton  man  and 
wife.  Savillc  was  nervous  and  dispirited  all  the  eve. 
ning,  and  lost  hit  after  hit  at  backgammon  to  Sir  Pere- 
grine, wondering  all  the  time,  in  the  inmost  recesses 
of  his  mind,  what  would  be  the  precise  time  at  which 
Miss  Malford's  messenger  with  the  flapped  hat  would 
deliver  the  letter,  and  what  conversation  Rose  and  her 
mother  would  hold  touching  the  contents.  The  next 
morning  Sir  Peregrine  went  out  shooting,  and  Savillc 
remained  in  solitude,  nervously  starting  every  time  a 
servant  entered  the  room,  expecting  that  he  would  be 
the  bearer  of  Rose  Stapleton's  refusal  on  a  silver  salver. 
Miss  Oglcby  was  almost  as  anxious  ;  she  expected  that 
Mrs.  Stapleton  or  Rose  would  call  on  her  to  inform 
her  of  Saville's  letter,  or  perhaps  that  Saville  him- 
self would  come  to  disclose  to  her  the  trick  that  had 
been  played  on  him,  and  she  strictly  enjoined  her  "  lit- 
tle foot  page  to  summon  her  immediately  from  lier 
"musical-luncheon  party,'  if  either  of  the  above  men- 
tioned three  persons  called  to  see  her.''  At  eleven 
o'clock,  Mr.  Scrapeall,  and  the  rest  of  the  amateurs 
arrived  ;  none  of  them  played  well,  even  when  they 
played  their  best,  and  the  reader  may  conclude,  that 
as  they  met  expressly  for  rehearsal,  their  present  per- 
formance was  not  of  the  most  harmonious  nature ; 
however,  they  were  abundantly  comi)limentary  to  each 
other.     Mr.  Jenks  said  that  Mr.  Todd  had  quite  Mori's 


xMATCll-DKKAKhNl-.  195 

luucli ;  and  Mr.  Todd  responded  lliat  Mr.  Jcuks  |)uL 
him  aniaziiigly  iji  mind  ot"  Pagannii.  Mis^i  .Siinpkins 
iJioiiglit  thai  Miys  Dabb's  lower  toneii  bore  an  advan- 
tageous rej-emblauee  to  those  of  Pasta ;  and  ■\lisb 
Dabbs  retorted  tliat  i\Iisa  Simpkius  went  two  note.:, 
higher  than  Gri.ii.  Miss  Iliggin.s,  a  little  pink  and 
while  girl  just  emancipated  from  boarding-sehool,  sang 
•'Child  of  Earth,  with  the  golden  hair,"  in  a  small, 
faint,  shrill,  lluttcring  voice,  and  was  universally  com- 
pared to  Mrs.  Wood  ;  and  a  pale,  sickly,  silly  looking 
Jad,  who  was  heir  to  a  large  fortune,  sang  "Light  of 
other  Days,"  in  remarkably  husky,  broken  tones,  and 
was  pronounced  by  all  the  ladies  to  be  immeasura- 
bly superior  to  Phillips.  In  the  midst  of  this  scene  of 
urbanity  and  politeness,  a  young  man  entered  the  room, 
who  took  the  first  violin  at  the  AUingham  monthly 
concerts ;  he  was  clever  in  his  profession,  and  the  AL 
lingham  amateurs  liked  to  have  him  at  their  little  so- 
cial meetings  ;  and  as  they  all  took  tickets  for  his  benc- 
lit,  he  was  toe  wise  to  give  them  any  unpleasant  infor- 
mation on  the  subject  of  their  perfect  ignorance  of  the 
delightful  science  which  they  professed  to  understand 
and  patronize. 

"  ]\ow  Mr.  Tune  well  is  come,"  said  Miss  Ogleby, 
"  we  will  have  the  overture  to  '  Der  Frcischutz.'" 

Accordingly  they  all  applied  themselves  to  their  re- 
spective parts,  and  went  on  tolerably  well  for  about 
two  minutes,  when,  with  amiable  anxiety  to  have  all 
things  in  common,  cac'i  began  to  encroach  upon  the 
part  of  the  other.  In  two  minutes  more,  Mr.  Todd, 
inspired  by  a  noble  feeling  of  emulation,  got  far  before 
the  rest  of  his  comrades  ;  Mr.  Scrapeall,  actuated  by 
interesting  timidity,  kept  far  behind ;  the  other  ama- 
teurs eacli  connnitted  some  sc{)arate  indiscretion  ;  and 
Mr.  Tunewell  was  the  only  steady  and  orderly  indi- 
vidual vlio  played  precisely  as  he  ought  to  do.  They 
fuul J  not  longer  pretend  to  remahi  unconscious  of  the 


196  :\IATCII-BUEAK1NG. 

dreadful  discords  they  were  producing.  At  length  Mr^ 
Scrapeall  spoke. 

"  It  is  all  Tunewell's  fault — he  plays  dreadfully  out 
of  taj:e — it  is  impossible  to  keep  pace  with  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  little  Miss  lliggins,  who  presided  at  the 
piano,  "  I  was  just  thinking  how  admirably  I  could  get 
on  with  tJie  other  gentlemen,  but  Mr.  Tuncwell  quite 
discomposes  us." 

"  Really,  Tuncwell,"  said  the  pale,  silly-looking 
young  heir,  in  a  patronizing  tone,  "you  must  be  more 
careful ;  here  is  a  whole  company  put  into  confusion 
by  your  slovenly  playing." 

Poor  Tuncwell  bowed  to  one,  and  apologized  to  an- 
other, confessed  that  he  was  very  stupid  ;  but  that  he 
had  been  sitting  up  late  last  night,  and  had  a  violent 
cold  and  headache  ;  and  having  received  a  condescend- 
ing permission  to  depart,  gladly  gathered  his  violin 
under  one  arm,  and  a  roll  of  music  under  the  other, 
and  quitted  the  room,  the  v/holc  circle  agreeing  that 
Tuncwell  was  a  good  sort  of  young  man,  but  certainly 
never  intended  by  nature  for  a  musician. 

Luncheon  followed,  scraped-bcef,  sandwiches,  baked 
custards  in  tea  cups,  heart  cakes,  pastry-cook's  tart- 
lets, drawns  clinging  to  lemonade  glasses,  and  inter- 
spersed  vrith  sprigs  of  parsley,  and  guinea  hen's  eggs 
reclining  on  a  bed  of  moss  to  do  duty  for  plover.^;.  Hot, 
hard  port,  and  deep-colored,  fiery  sherry,  constituted 
the  libations  at  the  banquet.  Mr.  Scrapeall,  who  was 
a  member  of  the  Temperance  Society,  having  inadver- 
tently taken  a  glass  of  the  sherry,  begged  leave  to  ex- 
change it  for  one  of  the  port,  since  he  observed  that  it 
"  hurt  his  conscience  to  take  any  thing  manifestly  con- 
taining so  large  a  proportion  of  brandy."  Whether  he 
meant  tliis  speech  for  a  compliment  or  a  sarcasm,  I 
cannot  pretend  to  say,  but  it  was  evidently  considered 
to  be  the  former  ;  for  Mr.  Jenks,  helping  himself  to  an- 
other bumper  of  the  aforesaid  sherry,  benevolently  re- 
marked that   ■Mis.i  Oglcby's  v.-ine-merchant  (who  was 


MATCII-liliEAKiNG.  197 

also  Ilia  ow'ij)  wa^  a  capi'al  fellow,  and  always  did  jus- 
tice lO  lii:5  custoiuers.  ARcr  a  few  more  songs,  sona- 
las,  and  fine  ppecclics,  the  musical  luncheon  party 
Kcparalcd,  delighted  with  their  morninfl's  amuseincnt 
and  wiih  Ihcm.selves,  Fcllling  to  meet  that  day  week 
at  Mr.  Scrapcall's,  and  unanimously  expressing  a  hope 
that  Tunewell  would  profit  by  tlic  hints  that  he  had  re- 
ceived, and  be  more  attentive  to  iiis  playing. 

Although,  liowcver,  the  guests  departed  satisfied,  the 
lioslcss  and  Miss  Malford  were  restless,  excited,  and 
uncomforlable,  and  full  cf  wonder,  that  they  heard  n«j. 
thing  of  the  poor  young  people  wliom  they  wisJicd  to 
victimize.  Joy,  lieverthcless,  triumphs  in  one  house, 
wliile  disapj)ointment  "  rules  and  reigns  without  con- 
control"  in  another.  Saville  had  just  finished  his 
solitary  luncheon,  when  the  wished-for,  yet  dreaded, 
letter  was  delivered  to  him  ;  it  was  from  Mrs.  Staple- 
lou.  He  opened  it  hi  fear  and  trepidation — could  he 
believe  his  eyes  ?  it  was  a  letter  of  acceptance  !  Mrs. 
Stapleton  candidly  ov.ned  that  she  could  have  wished 
her  daughter  to  contract  a  more  advantageous  alli- 
ance ;  hut  that  in  the  long  and  interest ing  conversa- 
tion which  followed  the  receipt  of  lilr.  SaVille's  letter 
on  the  preceding  night,  she  felt  thoroughly  convinced 
that  the  happiness  of  Rose  depended  on  a  union  v.ith 
him ;  and  as  their  united  incomes  would  be  pufllcient 
Ibr  the  necessaries  of  life,  dw  would  not  withhold  her 
co:i.'-cnt.  She  concluded  by  expressing  the  wish  of 
hcr.'-clf  and  Rose  to  sec  Mr.  .Saville  as  soon  as  possible. 
Saville,  almost  beside  himself  v/ith  joy,  made  a  hasty 
tnilettc,  directed  a  bcrvant  to  beg  Sir  Peregrine  not  to 
wait  dinner  for  him,  and  ran  all  tlie  way  to  Mrs.  Sta. 
plcton's  Iiouse. 

I  will  not  dilate  on  the  conversation  that  ensued  ; 
sufllee  it  to  say,  that  Saville  half,  but  not  wholly,  en- 
lightened the  ignorance  of  his  fair  friends  ;  he  coniesscd 
the  fact,  that  he  possessed  a  large,  independent  fortune, 
but  he  did  not  own  that  hij  love-letter  was  the  compo- 


198  MATCH. BREAKING. 

sition  of  another  person ;  he  feared  that  the  delicacy 
of  his  darling  Roeo,  and  the  dignity  of  her  mother, 
would  be  \vounded  at  the  idea  that  he  had  been  in  a 
manner  entrapped  into  an  engagement ;  and  as  the 
letter,  to  do  justice  to  Miss  Malford's  powers  of  elo- 
quence, was  a  very  tolerable  one,  he  had  determined 
to  sit  down  quietly  under  all  the  honors  of  it.  He, 
however,  ventured  to  beg  that  Mrs.  Stapleton  and 
Rose  would  be  very  guarded  and  distant  in  their  man- 
ners to  Miss  Oglcby  and  Miss  Malford,  observing  that 
he  had  good  reason  to  know  that  these  ladies  were  by 
no  means  so  sincere  and  friendly  as  they  appeared  to 
be  ;  and  they  readily  promised  him  that  the  spinsters 
should  hear  of  the  engagement  through  some  other 
channel.  Saville  returned  to  Sir  Peregrine  at  night, 
fall  of  spirits  and  happiness,  and  informed  him  that  he 
was  engaged  to  Rose  Stapleton,  but  not  of  the  means 
by  v.'hich  the  engagement  had  been  brought  about. 
Sir  Peregrine  was  unaffectedly  delighted,  told  Saville 
that  he  must  stay  with  him  till  the  wedding-day, 
ofiered  to  give  tlie  bride  avv^ay,  and  to  be  trustee  to  the 
settlement,. and  spread  about  the  news  in  every  part 
of  AUingham  throug'.j  the  whole  of  the  next  day. 

The  Match-breakers  heard  of  it  with  horror  ;  and 
Miss  Ogleby  had  a  violent  quarrel  with  her  dear  friend 
Miss  ]\Ialford,  telling  her  that  she  had  foreseen  every, 
thing  that  had  happened,  and  that  Miss  Malford's  offi- 
cious letter  had  been  the  cause  of  the  explanation  tak- 
ing place.  The  ensuing  morning,  Miss  Ogleby  was 
walking  alone,  and  met  Saville.  She  fixed  her  eyes 
on  him  with  that  determined,  fearless  stare,  which  is 
the  constant  brading  mark,  designating  women  of  un- 
daunted disposition  and  bold  manners,  and  said,  "  Well, 
you  took  us  all  by  surprise  by  your  engagement  to  Rose 
Stajdctdn."     "  Did  1  ?"  returned  Saville,  drily. 

"  Yes,"  she  proceeded,  affecting  an  air  of  great  play- 
fullness  ;  "  pray  may  I  ask  w^hethcr  you  made  your 
offer  by  letter  or  word  of  month  ?" 


^lATCII-EKEATCINr,.  199 

•'  Propof-'als  of  marria^'o,"  answered  Savi'lc,  '■  arC; 
I  ))'licve,  gfcnerally  made  by  letter." 

"  That  is  an  eqnivnoation,  and  not  a  direct  anf^v/cr," 
rejoined  Miss  Ofrlchy. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Saville,  "  I  did  not  make  my  of- 
ier  by  word  of  moulli."  Willi  ihis  answer  Mi.ss  Ogleby 
was  ff)rccd  to  sccni  contented. 

"  One  more  fjnestion  and  I  have  done,"  said  she. 
"  I  have  a  strange  fancy  to  know  wliat  messenger  yon 
''cnt  with  your  letter  ?" 

Saville,  lor  the  first  time  in  his  life,  met  Miss  Ogle- 
by's  s'.are  with  an  ("qnally  fixed  gaze,  and  rejoined,  "  I 
cannot  tell  you  the  name  of  the  person  ;  but  your  friend, 
Miss  Malford,  has  done  liini  some  favors,  and  b.e  knows 
himself  to  be  in  her  power;  on  the  occasion  alluded 
to,  he  could  not  easily  be  recognised  by  anybody,  for 
he  was  directed  to  flap  his  hat  carefully  over  his  eyes." 

Miss  Ogleby,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  looked  on 
the  ground,  and  appeared  di3conipo.'5ed  and  embar- 
rassed. She  immediately  went  to  Aliss  Malford,  and 
taxed  her  with  having  betrayed  the  secret.  Miss  Mal- 
ford replied  that  slie  had  never  mentioned  it  to  a  crea- 
ture, and  that  the  disclosure  of  it  was  doubtless  owing 
lo  Miss  Oglcby's  gossipping  loquacity.  Severe  rc- 
criniiiialions  ensued;  each  believed  the  other  to  be 
guilty,  although  in  this  particular  instance,  each  hap- 
j)ened  to  be  guiltless;  and  they  separated,  mutually 
declaring  that  thry  never  v.'ishcd  to  sec  each  other 
again.  Their  quarrels,  hov.'ever,  were  something  like 
those  of  lovers  ;  habit  and  congeniality  soon  reconciled 
them,  and  before  the  expiration  of  a  week,  they  Vv-ere 
again  the  "inimitable  inseparables"  that  they  were 
wont  to  be.  It  had  always  been  Savillc's  intention 
to  reveal  the  truth  to  Rose  immedialely  after  their 
jnarriagti,  since  he  justly  considered  that  there  ought 
lo  be  no  .secret  between  man  and  wife  ;  but  accident 
occasioned  a  premature  disclosure.  It  was  two  days 
iKiforc  the  tine  appointed  for  the  marriage,  Sir  Pere. 


200  r.TATCTI-EKEAinXG. 

griiie  and  Savilie  had  dined  at  Mrs,  Staplofon's;  in 
the  evening  a  book  of  Mrs.  Opie's  lyin^^  on  the  tabic, 
led  to  a  eonvcrsalion  on  allov/able  and  blamable  instan- 
ces of  dissimuialio)!.  Sir  Peregrine  contended  that 
Mrs.  (~>pie  was  much  too  severe,  and  tliat  there  wore 
instances  where  a  little  misrepresentation  was  excni^a. 
hie.  Savilie  took  the  contrary  side  of  the  question,  and 
7naintained  that  under  any  circumstances  it  must  be 
blamable.  Rose  could  not  help  playfully  taxing  her 
lover  with  having  been  guilty  of  a  little  misrepresenta- 
tion himself,  when  he  staled  in  his  letter  to  her  that 
liis  whole  income  was  derived  from  a  place  in  the  In- 
dia House,  whieh  it  afteru'ards  appeared  he  had  given 
up  for  some  months  ;  and  Savilie,  eager  to  defend  iiim- 
Kclf  from  the  charge  of  inconsistency,  detailed  \hr 
v/hole  history  of  the  letter. 

Sir  Peregrine  vvas  highly  indignant,  and  called  the 
heroines  of  the  plot  "  harpies,"  "jades,"  and  manv 
other  mythological  and  cvery-day  denominations,  with 
v.'hich  I  Vi'^ill  not  trouble  my  readers.  Mrs.  Stapleton 
and  Ro5;e,  truly  good-tempered  by  nature,  and  rendered 
particularly  amiable  at  the  present  juncture  by  the  un- 
clouded happiness  and  prosperity  which  they  enjoj'ed, 
did  not  express  themselves  with  equal  acrimony.  At 
last,  however,  Mrs.  Stapleton  said  that  she  thought 
the  spinsters  ought  to  be  punished,  and  suggested  the 
truly  rigorous  chastisement  of  .sending  tliein  no  bride- 
cake.  Sir  Peregrine,  hovrever,  requested  that  they 
might  have  it,  and  that  lie  might  be  entrusted  with  the 
rare  of  wrapping  it  up  and  delivering  it ;  he  tlicn  re. 
quested  Rose  to  give  him  the  letter  in  question — thi:^ 
was  easily  produced  ;  for  the  poor  girl  had  laid  it  uj)  in 
rose  leaves,  and  kissed  it  half  a  dozen  times  a  day,  lit- 
tle surmising  the  v/ithcrod  3'^8llov.'^  eld  fingers  that  had 
penned  it;  and  on  the  wedding  day,  Sir  Peregrine 
wrapped  up  one  piece  of  cake  in  the  love-letter,  and 
another  in  tlie  envc-lope,  and  himself  left  the  former  at 
the  door  of  M\r^?.  Malfird,  and  th-  hiu-r  at  that  of  Mi-s 


^lATCTT-nnE/iTrTNC.  201 

OTlcby.  Nor  did  hr>  r:top  licrc.  Hir  Pcrc^rinr  v/af  n 
luan  v.'ho  had  beon  known  topacrifjcp  cv^n  a  friond  lr> 
p  jokf,  lliercfore  i;.  wa'^  not  vnry  likely  he  ?hoiil(]  spare 
his  enemies  Caiid  lie  reg^art'e.l  the  cncniifs  of  Ro^^eSta- 
pleton  and  her  mother  a?;  his  own)  when  a  joke  eame 
in  the  way  ;  hn  aninseJ  the  whole  lown  of  Allinjrhani 
hy  his  comic  detail  of  tlic  business,  and  many  ol'  ihe 
young  people  openly  exulted  at  the  idea  that  such  skil- 
ful maleh-breakcrf?  had  been  unconsciously  playing  the 
part  of  match-maker?. 

Saville  and  his  bride  passed  the  honey-moon  with 
'ome  of  his  relations,  and  Sir  Peregrine  considered  if 
no  more  tiian  kind  to  pa''  frequent  visits  lo  Mrs.  Sla- 
pleton  in  her  solitude.  She  had  lately  much  raii^ed 
herself  in  his  opinion  ;  the  spinsters  h.ad  always  led 
1-im  to  consider  her  as  worldly  and  interested,  but  her 
fhcerful  acquiescence  in  the  desire  of  Rose  to  accept 
f  h'-  hand  of  .Saville  when  slie  believed  liis  circumstances 
to  be  narrow,  fully  exonerated  her  from  that  charge; 
hn  could  not  but  admire  the  good  nature  which  she 
displayed  in  her  ob?ervations  even  upon  her  foes  ;  and 
he  could  not  be  blind  to  the  fact,  that  although  a  very 
'inndsome  woman  in  the  prime  of  life,  she  had  never 
'light  lovers  or  flirtations  far  herself,  but  had  soiciy 
'•.-.veted  thcin  for  her  daughter.  Sir  Peregrine  soon 
began  to  think  he  had  been  very  fiolish,  a  fev.'  monlh-^ 
ago,  in  proposing  to  Rose  iiistead  of  her  mother  ;  short- 
ly he  considered  that  his  error,  great  as  it  was,  migli) 
perhaps  not  be  irreparable,  and  accordinglj^  he  offered 
iiis  hand  to  i^Irs.  Staplcton,  and  was  frankly  and  unaf- 
fectedly accepted. 

Miss  Ogleby  and  Miss  Malford  were  still  more  ex- 
asperated by  this  .match  ihan  they  would  have  been 
had  the  baronet  married  Rose  ;  in  that  case  they  could 
have  had  the  satisfaction  of  ridiculing  the  disparity  of 
age,  and  predicting  that  the  young  wife  would  make 
her  husband's  heart  ache;  but  the  union  of  a  hand, 
^ome,  amiable  woman  of  forlv-tv/o,  Vk'ilh  a  good-look- 
17 


202  IMATCII-BREAinXGc 

irig,  good-raturcd  man  of  fifty-five,  could  not  be  ren- 
sured  by  any  one,  and,  in  fact,  universal  pleasure  was 
caused  by  the  elevation  of  Mrs.  Staplcton  lo  the  title 
of  Lady  Dailin.'^,  and  the  dio-nitics  of  the  carriages, 
conservatories,  ice-houses,  pineries,  &c. 

Saville  purchased  a  beautiful  pl-ico  in  the  immedi- 
ate neigh!)orhood  of  Alliuo-ham,  and  the  old  maids 
were  continually  tormented  by  the  sight  of  the  happi- 
ness they  had  unwittingly  promoted.  They  had  some 
thoughts  of  quitting  Allingham  in  consequence,  but 
they  reflected  that  it  would  be  a  long  lime  before  they 
could  obtain  the  same  knowledge  of  all  tlie  private  af- 
fairs of  the  familes  in  a  new  place,  and  they  hoped  by 
the  harm  they  might  3'ct  do,  to  atone  for  that  which 
they  had  failed  to  do.  Their  expectations,  however, 
were  disappointed ;  all  their  power  to  injure  was  com- 
pletely gone.  When  they  depreciated  any  young  girl, 
hov/ever  justly,  their  auditors  delicately  hinted  to  them 
that  "the  tongue  of  the  evil  speaker  is  no  slander;" 
young  men  delighted  to  teaze  them  by  making  love  to 
others  before  their  faces,  and  compliments  and  fine 
speeches  flew  about  like  sugar  plums  at  a  Venetian 
Carnival,  among  all  the  female  population  of  Alling- 
ham, with  tlie  exception  of  themselves.  Such  was  the 
effect  of  this  playful  warfare,  that  many  actual 
matches  were  produced  by  it.  Allingham  had  never 
been  considered  a  marrying  place  ;  but  now  "  a  change 
came  o'er  the  spirit"  of  the  town  ;  it  was  indeed  ruled 
by  a  most  potent  spirit  in  the  affairs  of  love,  a  spirit  of 
contradiction  ;  from  the  time  of  Rose  Staplelon's  mar- 
riage, the  young  people  "  paired  off"  like  so  many 
members  at  a  division,  and  Allingham,  at  this  time, 
presents  the  strange  anomaly  of  a  country-town  flour- 
ishing in  a  constant  excitement  of  blonde-veils,  bride- 
cake, orange-biossoms,  and  bell-ringing,  although  the 
habitation  of  tv%'o  noted  and  experienced  Match-break- 


203 

BV  LIISS  L.  E.  LANDON. 

In  the  deep  silence  of  the  midnight  hours, 
I  call  upon  ye,  oh  ye  viewless  powers  ! 
Before  whose  presence  mortal  daring  cowers. 

I  have  subdued  ye  to  my  own  stern  will  ; 
I  fear  ye  not ;  but  I  must  shudder  still, 
Faint  with  the  awful  purpoise  ye  fulfil. 

Not  for  myself  I  call  the  aether-born, 

They  have  no  boon  ray  being  doth  not  scorn — 

Wholly  and  bitterly  am  I  forlorn. 

Dearly  is  bought  the  empire  of  the  mind; 
It  sitteth  on  a  sullen  throne,  designed 
To  elevate  and  part  it  from  its  kind. 

Long  years  my  stricken  soul  has  turned  away 
From  the  sweet  dreams  that  round  my  childhood  lay 
Would  it  still  ov\^ned  their  false  but  lovely  sv/ay  1 

In  the  dark  grave  of  unbelief  they  rest. 
Worthless  tliey  were,  and  hollow,  while  posscst. 
I  am  alone — uublessing,  and  unblest ! 

Knowledge  is  with  me — guest  that  once  received, 
Love,  hope,  ambition,  are  no  more  believed  ; 
And  we  disdain  what  formerly  had  grieved. 

A  few  fair  flowers  around  their  colors  fling. 
But  what  docs  questioning  their  sources  bring  ? 
Tiiat  from  corruption  and  from  death  they  spring 


204  THE  TROrilETESS. 

'T  is  thus  wiUi  those  sweet  dreaiiis  which  life  bej^in, 
We  weary  of  them,  and  we  look  within  ; 
What  do  \vc  find  ?  Guile,  suffering-,  and  sin. 

I  kaoiv  my  kind  too  well  not  to  despise 
TJie  gilded  sophistry  that  round  it  lies  ; 
Hate,  sorrow,  falsehood — mocking  their  disguise. 

Oh,  thou  old  world !  so  full  of  guilt  and  care^, 
So  mean,  so  small — I  marvel  Heaven  bears 
Thy  struggle,  which  the  seeing  almost  shares. 

Yet,  mine  ancestral  city,  for  thy  sake 
A  lingering  interest  on  this  earth  1  take ; 
111  the  dim  midnight 't  is  for  thee  I  wake. 

Softly  the  starlight  falletli  over  fanes 
That  rise  above  thy  myrtle- wooded  plains, 
\'/hcre  summer  hath  her  loveliest  domains. 

Beneath,  the  gardens  spread  their  pleasant  shade, 
The  lutes  arc  hushed  that  twilight  umsic  made, 
•Sleep  on  the  Vrorid  iier  ho:iey-spclI  halh  laid. 

Sweet  come  the  winds  that  o'er  these  flower-bedt;  rove, 
I  only  breathe  the  perfumes  that  ye  love. 
Spirits  I  my  incenue  summons  ye  above. 

What  of  yon  stately  city,  where  arc  shrined 
The  warrior's  and  the  poet's  wreath  combined- 
All  the  hiifh  honors  of  the  human  mind  I 


Her  wails  are  bright  Vv'ith  colors,  who.se  fine  dye^ 
Embody  shapes  that  seem  from  yonder  skies. 
And  in  her  scrolls  the  v^'orld's  deep  v^isdom  liea. 


GIBRALTAR,  FROM  THE  SEA.  205 

What  of  her  future  ? — Throuf^h  the  silvery  smoke 

I  see  the  distant  vision  I  hivoke. 

These  glorious  walls  have  bowed  to  Time's  dark  yoke. 

I  sec  a  plain  of  desert  sand  extend 

Scattered  with  ruinf5,  where  the  wild  flowers  bend, 

And  the  green  ivy,  like  a  last  sad  friend. 

Low  are  the  marble  columns  on  the  sand, 

The  palm-trees  that  have  grown  among  them  stand 

As  if  they  mocked  the  fallen  of  the  land. 

Hence,  ye  dark  Spirits  !  bear  the  dream  away  ; 
To-morrow  but  repeatcth  yesterday  ; 
First,  toil — then,  desolation  and  decay. 

Life  has  one  vast  stern  likeness  in  its  gloom, 

We  toil  with  hopes  that  must  themselves  consume — • 

The  wide  world  round  us  is  one  mighty  tomb. 


BY  MISS  L.  E.  LANDON, 

Down  'mid  the  waves,  accursed  bark, 
Down,  down  before  the  wind  ; 

Thou  canst  not  sink  to  doom  more  dark 
Than  that  thou  leavcst  behind. 

Down,  down  for  his  accursed  sake 
Whose  hand  is  on  thy  hehn. 

Above  the  heaving  billows  break — 
Will  they  not  overwhelm  ? 
17* 


206  e^lERALTAlI,  KKOM  THE  SEA. 

The  bluod  is  red  iipoii  the  deck, 
Of  murder,  not  of  strife  ; 

Now,  Ocean,  let  tlie  hour  of  wreck 
Atone  for  that  of  life  1 


Many  a  brave  heart  has  grown  cold, 
Though  battle  has  been  done  ; 

And  shrieks  have  risen  from  the  hold. 
When  hunjan  help  was  none. 

We  've  sailed  amid  the  Spanii^h  line;^, 
The  black  flag  at  the  mast, 

And  burning  towns  and  rifled  shrineo 
Proclaimed  where  we  had  past. 

The  captive's  low  and  latest  cry 

Has  risen  on  the  night, 
Wiiile  night  carousals  mocked  the  sky 

With  their  unholy  light. 

The  captain  he  is  young  and  fair — 
How  can  he  look  so  young  ? 

His  locks  of  youth,  his  golden  hair, 
Are  o'er  his  shoulders  flung. 

Of  all  ihe  deeds  that  he  has  done. 

Not  one  has  left  a  trace  ; 
The  midnight  cup,  the  noontide  sun, 

Have  darkened  not  his  face. 

His  voice  is  low — his  smile  is  sweet — = 

He  has  a  girl's  blue  eyes  ; 
And  yet  I  would  far  rather  meet 

The  storm  in  yonder  skies. 


THE  WKEATllb.  207 


I'he  lierccot  ofour  [lirale  baud 
Holds  al  his  name  tlie  breath  ; 

For  there  is  blood  on  his  right  hand, 
And  ill  liis  heart  is  death. 


He  knows  ho  rides  above  his  grave, 

Yet  careless  it!  his  eye  ; 
He  looks  with  licorn  upon  the  wave, 

With  scorn  ujion  the  sky. 

Great  God !  the  sights  that  1  have  seen 

When  far  upon  the  main  I 
I  'd  rather  that  my  death  had  been 

Than  see  those  sights  again. 

Pale  faces  glhniner,  and  are  gone, 
Wild  voices  rise  from  the  shore  ; 

1  see  one  giant  wave  sweep  on — 
It  breaks  I — we  rise  no  more. 


BY  ELIZA  COOK. 

Whom  do  we  crown  with  the  laurel  leaf? 
The  hero  god,  tlie  soldier  chief, 
liut  we  dreainof  the  crushing  cannon-wheel. 
Of  the  flying  shot  and  the  reeking  steel, 
Of  the  crimson  jdain  where  warm  blood  smoke- 
Where  clangor  deafens  and  sulphur  chokes. 
Oh,  who  can  love  the  laurel  wreath, 
Plucked  from  the  gory  field  of  death  ? 


20§  THE  WPtEATHS. 

Whom  do  wc  crown  with  summer  flowers  ? 
The  young  and  fair  in  their  happiest  hours. 
But  the  buds  will  only  live  in  the  light 
Of  a  festive  day  or  glittering  night; 
We  know  the  vcrmil  tints  will  fade, 
That  pleasure  dies  with  the  bloomy  braid. 
And  who  can  prize  the  coronal 
That 's  formed  to  dazzlcj  wither,  and  fall  ? 


Who  wears  the  cypress,  dark  and  drear  ? 
The  one  who  js  sheddnig  the  mourner's  tear, 
The  gloomy  branch  for  ever  twines 
Round  foreheads  graved  with  sorrow's  lines. 
'Tis  the  type  of  a  sad  and  lonely  heart, 
That  hath  seen  its  dearest  hopes  depart ; 
Oh,  who  can  like  the  chaplct,  band, 
Tha:  is  wove  by  Melancholy's  hand  ? 


Where  is  the  ivy  circlet  found  ? 

On  :he  one  whose  brain  and  lips  are  drowned 

In  the  purple  stream — who  drinks  and  laughs 

Till  his  checks  outflush  the  wine  he  quaffs ; 

Oh,  glossy  and  rich  is  the  ivy  crown, 

Wii.i  its  gems  of  grape-juice  trickling  down; 

But  bright  as  it  seems  o'er  the  glass  and  bowl. 

It  has  stam  for  the  heart,  and  shade  for  the  soul. 


But  :herc  's  a  green  and  fragrant  leaf 
Betokens  nor  revelry,  blood,  nor  grief; 
'T  is  the  purest  amaranth  springing  below, 
And  rests  on  the  calmcct,  noblest  brow  ; 
It  is  not  the  right  of  tlie  monarch  or  lord. 
Nor  purchased  by  gold,  nor  won  by  the  sword, 
For  Jie  lowliest  temples  gather  a  ray, 
Of  qucnchlcos  light  from  the  palm  of  bay. 


THE  MEETIA'G  OF  TilE  BKOTIIERS.  209 

0  beauLiful  bay  !  I  worship  thcc — 

1  homage  thy  wreath — I  cherish  thy  tree  ; 
And  of  a!l  the  chaplets  Fame  may  deal, 
'T  is  only  to  this  one  1  would  kneel ; 

For  as  Indians  fly  to  the  Banian  branch, 
When  teinj)ests  lower  and  thunders  launch,    , 
So  the  spirit  may  turn  from  crowds  and  strife, 
xVnd  seek  from  the  bay- wreath  joy  and  life. 


'^i'i^^  E/JildTrOl^a©  ©■?■  ^KE  [iJfF^QirHglP.Sc 


•'  llis  early  days 
■'  Were  with  him  in  his  heart."" — Wunhworih. 

The  voices  of  two  forest  boys, 
In  years  when  hearts  entwine. 

Had  fill'd  with  childhood's  merry  noioc 
A  valley  of  the  Rhine. 

To  rock  and  stream  that  sound  waa  known, 

(jladsonie  as  hunter's  bugle  tone. 

The  sunn}'  langliter  of  their  eyes 
There  had  each  vineyard  seen  ; 

\]\i  every  clilF  wlience  eagles  rise. 
Their  bounding  step  had  been  ; 

Ay  I  tlieir  bright  youth  a  glory  tinevv 

O'er  the  wild  place  wlierein  they  grew. 

But  this,  as  day-spring's  Hush,  wa;:>  brief 

As  early  bloom  or  dew  ; 
Alas  !  't  is  but  the  withered  leaf 

That  wears  the  enduring  hue  1 
Tliosc  rocks  along  the  Rliinc's  fair  shore. 


liiO  THE  MEETI.XG  OF  THE  BROTHERS. 

For  now  on  manhoofPs  verge  they  stood, 
And  heard  life's  thrilling  call, 

As  if  a  silver  clarion  woo'd 
To  some  high  festival  ; 

And  parted  as  young  brothers  part, 

\^  ith  love  in  each  unsullied  heart. 


They  parted — soon  the  paths  divide 

Wherein  our  steps  were  one, 
Like  river-branches,  far  and  wide 

Dissevering  as  they  run, 
And  making  strangers  in  their  course 
Of  waves  that  had  the  same  bright  source. 

Met  they  no  more  ? — once  more  they  met. 
Those  kindred  hearts  and  true  ! 

'T  was  on  a  field  of  death,  where  yet 
The  battle-thunders  fiew. 

Though  the  fierce  day  was  well  nigh  past, 

And  the  red  sunset  smiled  its  last. 


But  as  the  combat  closed,  they  found 
For  tender  thoughts  a  space. 

And  ev'n  upon  that  bloody  ground 
Room  for  one  brief  embrace. 

And  poured  forth  on  each  other's  neck 

Such  tears  as  warriors  need  not  check. 


The  mists  o'er  boyhood's  me:nory  spread 
All  melted  with  those  tears  ; 

The  faces  of  the  holy  dead 
Rose  as  in  vanish'd  years  ; 

The  Rhuie,  the  Rhine,  the  ever  blessed, 

Lifted  its  voice  hi  each  full  breast. 


METASTASIO.  51  i 

Oh  !  was  il,  Ihcn  a  time  to  die  '. 

It  was  !  that  not  in  vain 
The  noul  of  childhood's  pnrity 

And  peace  mio:ht  tnrn  again. 
A  ball  swept  forth — 1  was  friiidcd  well — 
Heart  unto  heart  those  brothers  fell. 

Happy,  yes,  happy  thus  to  go  ! 

Bearing  from  earth  away 
AiTections,  gifted  ne'er  to  know 

A  shadow — a  decay, 
A  passing:  touch  of  change  or  chill, 
A  breath  of  aught  whose  breath  can  kill 

And  they,  between  whose  severed  souls. 

Once  in  close  union  tied, 
A  Gfulf  is  set,  a  current  rolls 

For  ever  to  divide, — 
Well  may  thry  envy  such  a  lot, 
Whose  hearts  yearn  on — but  mingle  not, 


TRANSLATED  BY  MRS.  HEMANS. 
Dunque  si  sfoga  iir  pianto. 

In  tears,  the  heart  opprest  with  gritf 

Gives  language  to  its  woes  ; 
In  tears, .its  fulness  finds  relief, 

When  rapture's  tide  o'erflows  ! 
Who  then  unclouded  bliss  would  seek 

On  this  terrestrial  sphere  ; 
When  e'en  the  delight  can  on!}'  .'-peak, 

Like  sorrow — in  a  tear  ? 


212 


Time  rolls  liis  cenrelsss  course.     Tl:e  rare  of  yore. 

Who  ilnsiccil  our  iniancj'  upon  their  hneo. 
AnJ  told  our  marvelliiifT boyhood  lewnd's  store, 

or  their  stran~e  ventures  happ'd  by  land  or  sea.' — 
How  are  they  blotted  from  the  things  that  be ! 

Yet  live  there  Fti'.l  v/ho  can  remernler  well 
Mow,  wiien  a  mountain  chief  his  bugle  blew. 

Both  field  and  I'orest,  dingle,  clift',  and  dell, 
Ar.d  solitary  heath,  the  signal  knew : 

And  fast  the  JaiUiful  clan  around  him  drew." 

Walter  Scott 

I  iiAvr.  a  frequent  l^abit  of  cojicludingmy  dail^'^  ram- 
ble by  a  half-lio:ir'.s  saunter,  towards  the  (gloaming,  in 
the  church-yard.  Independently  of  the  mysterious 
feeling  inspired  by  the  contemplation  of  no  many  gen- 
erations  of  himian  bcinjrs,  once  active  and  intelligent 
a.^.  ourf-elves,  nov>'  lost  in  tlie  dust  around  us,  Ihere  is  a 
romantic  beauty  in  t!ie  Eituation  of  this  lonely  ruin 
which  often  drew  my  homeward  step:^  aside.  Its  per. 
feet  politude,  the  gloom  of  the  pine-clad  mountain  and 
the  dark  lake  they  bound,  fitted  the  fancy  to  dwell  on 
tb.ose  long-past  times  whose  history  the  groups  of 
swelling  turf  related.  Crowds  of  martial  .shadows 
would  seem  to  flit  before  me  ;  and  the  legends  of  their 
even'iful  days  ro.se  in  long  succession  to  my  thouglits, 
as  the  twilight  gradually  darkened.  A  tale  of  tender 
melancholy  seldom  obtruded  iLself  on  my  imagination 
as  I  gazed  on  the  nameies.s  graves — visions  of  war 
alone  haunted  me  ;  and  the  tramp  of  a  martial  step,  or 
the  clangor  of  sounds  of  death,  would  almost  ring  on 
my  ear,  as  I  conjured  up  in  memory  the  r-tories  of  the 
clans.  Tondernes.s  hardly  appears  to  me  to  be  a  char- 
acteristic of  the  Highlander.  He  passe.«?scs  great  del- 
icacy both  of  manner  and  il-eling  ;  but  as  far  as  I,  a 


:^IACALISTER  MORE.  213 

Soulhron,  can  jiulgc  cither  of  llie  talcs  of  their  bards, 
or  tho  turn  of  their  poelry,  their  simple  manners  have 
kept  tlicm  still  far  behind  tlieir  Lowland  neighbors  in 
this  particular  refinement  of  sentiment.  Women,  too, 
play  but  a  moderate  part  in  the  annals  of  their  country. 

I  walked  on  one  evening  during  these  reflections  ta 
the  further  corner  of  the  church-yard,  and  stopped  be- 
fore a  low  sto!:e-wall  v/hich  enclosed  a  portion  of  the 
hurying-ground.  It  v.as  strongly  but  roughly  built, 
without  cement,  completely  moss-grown,  and  along  its 
top  ran  a  clumsy  wooden  paling,  of  apparently  later 
erection.  This  rude  enclosure  was  the  burial-place  of 
the  Laird's  family — this  humble  spot  was  the  last  asy- 
lum of  their  proud  and  ancient  race — it  might,  in  a 
moralizing  hour,  seem  in  its  decay  to  keep  pace  with 
the  fortunes  of  its  founders.  Many  a  noble  relic  had 
taken  his  silent  place  there  since  the  lowering  clouds 
of  destiny  had  settled  over  the  house  of  MacAlister. 

I  remarked  with  some  curiosity,  close  to  the  gate  of 
this  melancholv-looking  cemetery,  a  grave  of  more 
than  ordinary  dimensions.  At  the  head  was  placed  a 
stone  crucifix,  nearly  half-buried  in  tho  rising  sod — at 
the  foot  a  small  gray  stone,  perfectly  round,  and  very 
much  indented,  witli  more  seeming  regularity  than 
could  easily  have  been  effecied  by  the  lapse  of  time ; 
and  beside  this  stone  a  towering  thistle  flourished.  My 
landlord,  who  lias  some  turn  for  ancient  learning, 
made  me  rather  a  mysterious  answer  to  the  questions 
I  asked  concerning  it ;  he  seemed  desirous  to  avoid  the 
conversation  ;  and  when  my  perseverance  forced  him 
to  be  more  explicit,  he  drew  his  chair  closer  to  the  fire, 
raised  the  logs  to  make  a  brighter  blaze,  and,  tin-owing 
a  cautious  glance  around  the  kitchen,  commenced  his 
:4ory  in  a  lower  tone. 

That  grave,  he  told  me,  was  the  grave  of  Duncan 

Roy,  the  boldest  man   that  ever  yet  the   Highlands 

boasted  of,  bold  and  bad — the  greatest  of  his  day,  and 

tJie  sworn  foe  to  tho  house  of  MacAlislcr.     Throufili 

18 


214  :\rACA LISTER  :jop:e. 

h\s  life  he  liad  pursued  his  mig-hty  adversaries  with 
imextingnishable  hatred  ;  and  at  his  death  (here  in}' 
landlord  cast  a  fearful  meaning  look  at  his  wife) — he 
was  buried  at  the  threshold  of  their  tomb,  to  reinhid 
them  in  calmer  times  of  one  who  had  wrought  them 
so  much  evil.  They  dared  not  remove  his  body — they 
dared  not  touch  the  holy  crucifix  erected  on  his  grave  I 
'T  was  said  a  warning  voice  had  forbid  the  sacrilege. 

Dark  times,  long  since  past,  had  rolled  over  the 
feuds  of  the  families,  but  still  the  legends  of  old  lived 
in  the  memory  of  succeeding  generations,  and  a  fear- 
ful connexion  betwixt  the  house  of  MacAlister  and  the 
grave  of  Duncan  Roy  exists  to  this  hour  among  its  fol- 
lowers. So  long  as  the  soil  which  covers  his  fatal  re- 
mains continues  green  above  him,  so  long,  said  my 
landlord,  using  in  his  eagerness  tlie  Gaelic  word  which 
means  something  more  ruthless  than  a  conqueror, — so 
long  must  the  clan  of  his  destro3^er  flourish  ;  but  wo  to 
the  sacrilegious  hand  that  should  strike  at  his  ever- 
blooming  thistle  I — and  let  the  MacAlisters  tremble  if 
ever  the  round  stone  against  which  he  rests  his  feet  be 
stolen  from  him  1 — "  It  is  strange,"  said  my  landlord, 
"but  those  are  yet  living  that  can  say  it 's  true — it  is 
strange  that  that  grave  to  this  day  rises  against  an}' 
evil  to  the  family.  The  night  before  the  lady  went," 
continued  he,  in  a  scarcely  audible  whisper,  "  it  was 
seen"  said  he  with  emphasis,  "  to  heave  like  the  bil- 
lows of  the  ocean,  as  if  the  body  would  have  burst  the 
ground  to  laugh  at  the  dole  war  coming  on  its  enemy  ; 
and  the  stone,"  pursued  he,  warmed  by  his  subject, 
and  forgetting  in  his  eagerness  his  former  caution, — 
"  the  honest  man  is  living  yet  who  swore  to  me  his 
ov/n  eyes  saw  it,  that  on  the  day  Miss  MacAlister  and 
her  young  cousin  were  to  be  trysted,  the  stone  was 
away — the  hole  it  left  the  man  put  his  hand  in,  full  of 
worms,  and  snails,  and  yellow  withered  grass — it 's  Al- 
lan's widow's  fatlicr — I  know  the  man — himself  told 
me  :  but  who  took  it  off,  and  v/lio  brought  it  back,  it 


MACALISTER  MORE.  215 

i"^  not  {"or  us  to  inquire."  And  my  landlord  concluded 
his  talc  in  a  voice  of  fearful  so!cmnit3^ 

There  was  a  long'  pause,  for  the  story  had  impressed 
the  whole  fauiily  with  the  superstitious  awe  its  mys- 
tcry  excited.  I  cannot  say  I  was  myself  quite  free 
from  the  sort  of  hrcathlessness  with  which  one  listens 
to  the  wild  hclicf  of  ages ;  but  the  hint  at  the  conclu- 
sion  had  caus^cd  a  keener  feeling — "  Miss  MacAlister 
trystcd  to  her  cousin  ?" 

"  No — she  was  7iot  trysted,"  replied  the  landlord  a 
little  hastily. 

His  Vv'ife  gave  a  short  cough,  and  pushed  her  young- 
est boy  something  farther  from  the  fire. 

"Which  cousin?"  said  I;  "young  Mr.  Patrick's 
father?" 

"  His  elder  brother,"  replied  the  landlord,  quietly — 
"  the  heir."  He  pronounced  the  magic  word  with 
dignity. 

"  And,"  continued  I  impatiently,  "  what — wh}' — 
how  did  it  never  happen  ?" 

iMy  landlord's  memory  suddenly  rorsock  hi.m.  I  saw 
it  would  be  ill  manners  to  press  tlic  subject,  so  I  was 
forced  to  turn  again  to  Duncan  Roy  ;  but  the  chain 
for  that  night  v/as  broken — we  had  both  lost  the  spirit 
of  the  theme,  and  from  some  accident  it  was  not  after- 
wards renewed  between  iis.  Not  till  the  filling  of  my 
friend  the  minister's  second  tumbler,  on  the  last  day  of 
my  visit  to  his  nuanse,  did  I  gain  a  true  knowledge  of 
the  history  of  Duncan  Roy. 

In  times  too  remote  to  allow  of  any  question  as  to 
their  character,  two  pov/erful  rivals  disturbed  the  tran- 
quillity of  the  Highlands.  MacAlister  More — for  all 
legends  of  his  race  refer  to  him  as  their  hero — was  the 
only  cljild  of  his  parents.  He  was  bred  with  all  the 
care  his  qualify  demanded,  and  with  more  than  tJie 
ordinary  tenderness  of  his  times.  A  close  connexion 
subsisted  then  betwixt  his  family  and  the  Barons  of 
Wcvys,  whose  fame,  great  in  the  annals  of  their  day, 


21G  r-lACALISTER  MOKE. 

is  now  one  of  tlic  dreams  of  history.  Tiic  Barou  of 
Wevys  had  tv/o  sons  ;  the  cider,  gentle,  gay,  and  beau- 
tiful,— the  younger  imperious,  subtle,  and  of  very  in- 
ferior personal  attractions  ;  he  was  large,  clumsy,  raw- 
boned,  and  hard-featured,  and  sirnaraed,  from  a  fright- 
ful peculiarity  and  the  color  of  his  hair  and  complex- 
ion, "Duncan  Roy  tda  reugh  cachghlin ;"  the  literal 
translation  of  which  is,  "  Red  Duncan  of  the  two  rows 
of  teeth."  Nature  liad  furnished  his  otherwise  un- 
prepossessing countenance  with  a  complete  double  set 
of  large  back  teeth;  both  jaws  were  equally  encum- 
bered ;  and  the  size  of  the  formidable  mouth  which 
held  this  hideous  assemblage  was  proportioned  to  the 
ornament  it  contained,  it  was  hardly  to  be  sup])oscd 
that  in  his  early  years  Duncan  of  the  Double  Teeth 
could  expect  to  share  equally  with  his  brother,  and  his 
still  handsomer  friend  the  smiles  of  beauty,  yet  it  is 
believed  his  pretensions  were  not  the  less  arrogant  for 
1  his  deformity ;  and  to  the  disappointment  of  his  youth- 
ful pride  was  traced  those  dreadful  ftjuds  between  the 
families  which  ceased  but  with  the  life  of  one  of  the 
rivals. 

The  young  Master  of  Wevys  married.  Wedding 
festivities  then  were  quite  unlike  the  mysterious  pri- 
vacy of  such  events  in  our  day — they  lasted  weeks,  in 
the  cyG:i  of  all  the  kindred  ;  and  the  hospitalities  of 
the  two  contracting  houses  were  unlimited.  Far  or 
Jiear,  every  connexion  on  either  side  was  invited  to  the 
festival ;  and  many  a  future  bride  had  cause  to  bless 
the  gay  liberty  of  a  meeting  which  gained  her  the 
heart  of  the  bridegroom's  friend.  MacAlister  More 
was  the  only  hope  of  his  people — it  was  of  instant  con- 
sequence that  he  should  marry  early  ;  the  choice  of  his 
companion  had  brought  this  necessity  before  him,  and 
during  the  merry  scenes  of  the  master's  bridal  he  made 
his  selection.  Tiie  bride  had  a  lovely  sister,  young 
and  fair,  and  blythc  as  a  summer  morning,  brought 
iUto  notice  for  the  first  time  on  this  occasion.     Mac- 


-MACALIbTEK  MOKE.  '2 17 

Alisler  More  wooed  and  won  her ;  but  of  course  she 
had  anoUier  suitor — Duncan  Roy.  There  was  little 
struggle  between  tlieni — the  handsome  heir  of  Mac 
Alister  had  little  to  fear  from  tlie  present  pretensions 
of  a  younger  brotiicr,  rude  and  ungainly  ;  but  his  af- 
ter-resentment was  of  very  different  consequence — il 
was  unccashig,  iiuplacablc,  and  pursued  him  through 
weal  and  wo  to  the  brink  of  his  fearful  grave — ay,  and 
beyond  it.  For  some  years  his  smothered  hate  could 
work  but  casual  evil  to  his  prosperous  rival ;  but  the 
day  came  when  his  revengeful  passions  could  be  in- 
dulged without  control — the  changes  of  life  altered 
their  relative  situations — MacAIisler  More  became  the 
chief  of  his  people,  and  Duncan  Roy  was,  upon  his 
brother's  death,  chosen  tutor  to  his  orphan  son. 

Now  did  the  feuds  of  these  rival  heroes  ripen.  Long 
was  the  strife — unequal  the  fortunes  of  their  never- 
ending  hate  ;  battle  after  battle  was  waged  keenly  be- 
tween them — victories  were  doubtful,  success  was  dis- 
puted, rancor  continued. 

Mac  Alister  More  was  the  chief  of  a  small  but  gal- 
lant clan,  too  circumscribed  in  territory  to  excite  jeal- 
ousy either  from  their  possessions  or  their  numbers ; 
but  their  valor,  and  a  certain  degree  of  honesty  in  their 
transactions,  has  given  them  an  influence  in  the  rude 
Highlands  they  were  otherwise  hardly  entitled  to  as- 
sume. MacAlister  found  them  great,  and  left  them 
greater,  and  tliis  in  spite  of  his  deadly  striving  with 
the  formidable  Duncan  Roy.  The  Barons  ofWevys 
v/as  a  branch  of  one  of  the  greatest  families  that  Scot- 
land ever  boasted  of,  and  the  strength  of  their  connex- 
ion made  their  power  over  the  fortunes  of  their  neigh- 
bors for  many  ages  almost  unlimited.  They  were  be- 
ginning, in  their  pride,  to  v.ithdraw  themselves  from 
all  clanish  dependence,  and,  trusting  to  themselves 
alone,  had  assumed  a  rank  in  their  country  scarcely  in- 
ferior to  the  noble  chief  from  whom  they  sprung.  Un- 
der the  haughty  reign  of  Duncan  Roy,  the  arrogance 
18-- 


218  3IACAL1STER  JiORK. 

of  his  race  was  fully  fostered  ;  and  ineetiiisr  with  no 
domestic  check  to  his  ambitious  daring,  he  despised  all 
foreign  efforts  to  reduce  his  pride.  His  nephew  grew 
up  to  man's  estate  without  discovering  any  symptoms 
of  maniiood  in  his  character ;  the  clan  would  never 
have  acknowledged  him,  undirected,  as  their  head. 
There  was  one  instance  in  their  annals,  of  a  former 
baron,  equally  insignificant,  having  suddenly  disap- 
peared  from  among  them  ;  and  the  wisilom  of  tlieir 
present  lord  was  just  sufficiently  developed  to  make 
him  lean  with  the  utmost  resignation  on  the  councils 
of  his  uncle. 

The  Tutor  of  Wevys  had  never  married.  More 
than  once  he  had  threatened  MacAlister,  that  to  him 
he  should  look  for  his  bride  ;  but  the  charms  of  Mac 
Alister's  lovely  lady  were  fading,  and  the  stern  chief 
had  long  laughed  in  scorn  at  the  boasts  of  his  foe. 

It  was  the  custom  in  the  Highlands  for  the  large 
herds  of  black  cattle,  on  which  the  wealth  of  the  coun- 
try prmcipally  depended,  to  be  sent  regularly  from 
the  plains  to  summer  among  the  rich  green  glens  of 
the  mountains.  The  whole  family  usually  accompa- 
}iied  them,  carrying  only  such  common  necessaries  as 
were  indispensable.  A  balkic  was  their  residence — a 
long,  low  hut  of  turf,  containing  generally  but  two 
apartments,  into  which  laird,  lady,  children,  and  ser- 
vants, packed  with  little  ceremony.  The  ladies,  who 
lived  in  great  seclusion  in  their  more  splendid  homes, 
j)artieularly  liked  these  hill  excursions,  when  they 
cheerfully  amused  themselves  with  all  the  rural  occu- 
pations of  their  times  ;  and  't  is  said  they  watched  the 
closing  week  of  these  days  of  liberty  with  regret.  They 
seem,  in  general,  to  have  mixed  little  in  company. — 
They  seldom  went  from  home,  and  they  did  not  often 
grace  their  husband's  banquets.  The  great  hall  v/as 
the  only  public  apartment ;  and  as  the  revels  it  Vv'it- 
nesscd  constantly  continued  without  interruption  for 
days,  the  ladies  could  not  be  supposed  lo  appear  there 


MACALISTEK  310KE.  219 

irc<iuciilly  ;  it  was  not,  therefore,  .siirprifchijx  that  lliey 
ionged  to  cxcliaiige  tlic  dull  employ  incnts  of  their  more 
stately  apartments,  and  the  routhic  of  their  household 
mauagcment,  for  the  merry  bustle  of  mountain  free- 
dom. 

These  excursions  seldom  took  place  till  after  the 
Lammas  flood  rains,  which,  in  complhnent  to  St. 
.Swithin,  seldom  attempt  in  the  Highlands  to  cheat 
him  of  one  of  his  forty  days.  One  beautiful  autumn, 
MacAiister  More  carried  his  family,  as  usual,  to  the 
hill ;  and  having  settled  them  there,  he  collected  the 
briskest  of  his  attendants,  and  set  forward  himself  on 
a  hunting  expedition  which  was  to  last  some  days. 
The  lady,  her  daughter,  and  their  maids,  with  one  or 
two  elderly  men  left  in  charge  of  the  herds,  and  a  crew 
of  boys,  inseparable  from  every  Highland  establishment, 
continued  alone  at  the  botliie.  In  ihoze  primitive 
ages,  the  Highland  ladies,  like  the  ancient  Grecian 
dames,  held  themselves  superior  to  none  of  the  domes 
tic  employments  of  their  homes ;  it  \\as  very  common 
for  them,  on  these  hill  excursions,  to  superintend  the 
yearly  washing  of  the  family  linen,  wliicli  the  pure  air 
of  these  elevated  regions,  or  the  virtue  of  some  partic- 
ular spring,  was  thought  to  bleach  with  peculiar  per- 
fection.  The  lady  of  MacAiister  seized  the  occasion 
of  his  hunting  expedition  to  employ  her  maidens  in  this 
long-delayed  labor.  A  piece  of  turf  near  the  burnside 
was  soon  lifted,  a  small  hollow  scooped  underneath  the 
spot  where  it  had  lain,  and  a  large  kettle  hung  on 
the  poles  v>'hich  had  been  rudely  fastened  together  to 
support  it.  The  crew  of  boys  collected  the  fuel  and 
fed  the  fire  ;  and  the  numerous  damsels,  whom  the 
due  state  of  their  lady  required  ever  to  hang  about  her, 
were  quickly  employed  in  the  merry  service  of  the 
day. 

The  lady  had  chosen  for  the  scene  of  her  occupation 
a  bit  of  green  turf,  above  which  towered  the  rocks  that 
closed  the  glen.     A  noisy  cataract  dashed   down  the 


220  TMACALISTER  3iORE. 

steepest  precipice,  aud  rushed  on  past  the  bothie  to 
plunge  into  the  lake  which  filled  the  rest  of  the  valley. 
Along  the  banks  of  this  wild  burn  the  groups  of  cheer- 
ful  girls  were  scattered  ;  some  bending  over  the  cogues 
in  which  they  wrung  their  linen — some  tramping  with 
noisy  glee  in  larger  tubs  beside  them — some  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  burn,  dashing  the  water  upon  the  long 
line  of  snow-white  napery,  amongst  which  the  lady 
herself  was  walking,  her  stately  step  and  dignified  de- 
meanor contrasting  with  the  quick  and  active  motions 
of  the  train  by  which  she  was  surrounded.  The  night 
was  coming  on,  and  the  herds,  that  had  been  scattered 
throughout  the  day  upon  the  sides  of  the  mountains, 
were  beginning  slowly  to  gather  towards  the  best  de- 
scent. 

MacAlister's  only  daughter,  his  only  child,  was 
standing  aloof  from  her  mother  near  the  margin  of  the 
lake,  watching,  with  unusual  seriousness,  the  close  of 
evening.  She  wandered  till  she  reached  a  high  rock, 
advancing  so  far  into  the  water  as  to  form  a  little  bay, 
where  her  father's  fishing-boat  could  lie  secure  in  eve- 
ry wind.  She  stopped  when  she  reached  it,  and  turned 
to  look  at  the  groups  still  busy  by  the  side  of  the  burn. 
Just  at  this  moment  a  loud  shriek  burst  from  the  rocky 
mountain  at  the  head  of  the  glen,  which  echoing  round 
and  round  from  every  hollow,  rung  through  the  valley. 
Another  scream  succeeded,  and  the  herds,  as  if  im- 
pelled by  sudden  fear,  came  pelting  down  the  deep 
slopes  of  the  hills  in  hurried  disorder. 

The  lady  and  her  maids  stared  round  them  in  breath- 
less wonder.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  trusty  bowman. 
He  shouted  again,  and  the  report  of  the  small  carbine 
he  carried  in  virtue  of  his  office  as  protector  of  the  herd 
peeled  round  the  closing  hilis.  The  lady  raised  her 
eyes,  and,  looking  up,  beheld  him  leaning  in  an  attitude 
of  despair  over  the  summit  of  the  precipice  ;  the  white 
foam  of  the  cataract  sprinkled  his  garments,  and  the 
noise  of  its  v»alero  prevented  the  few  words  he  wildly 


.■\IACAL1STEK  ZIOKE.  221 

iiUcrcd  iVoia  being  distinguished  in  tlic  vale  bciow. 
Tiic  lady's  blood  ran  cold  wilhia  her — she  sunk  upon 
licr  knees  by  the  burn-side,  and  fixed  a  look  of  horror 
on  the  adventurous  bowman  ;  he  had  thrown  himself 
from  the  rock,  and  hanging,  like  some  devoted  being, 
against  its  side,  witli  no  support  but  the  grasp  his 
iiands  had  taken  of  the  point  above,  he  searched  with 
liis  feet  in  vain  for  some  small  step  to  rest  his  weight 
on.  He  imng  a  minute  more,  when,  slackening  his 
feeble  hold,  he  fell  lieavily  upon  a  patch  of  mossy  bog 
at  tlic  foot  of  the  fearful  craig,  which  goes  to  this  day 
■!iy  the  name  of  the  Bowman's  Leap.  He  lay  for  a  mo- 
ment motionless;  then  rising  at  abound, he  continued 
with  an  air  of  desperation  his  difficult  descent,  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock  over  chasms  which  in  calmer  mo- 
ments a  younger  and  more  active  man  than  he  might 
have  shuddered  at.  He  darted  down  the  rough  ground 
with  the  speed  of  the  flying  wild  deer  ;  and  springing 
at  length  with  frantic  precipitation  from  the  last  stone 
that  clieckcd  his  v/ay,  he  dropped  on  the  green  sward 
almost  exhausted. 

His  fall  was  greeted  b}'  a  loud,  insulting  shout  from 
the  water.  There,  alrcad}^  near  the  middle  of  tlie  lake, 
glided  securely  away  the  little  boat.  Two  unwearied 
rowers  speeded  its  flight ;  and  standing  immediately 
before  them,  his  cap  waving  scornfully  in  his  hand, 
and  MacAli.ster's  only  daughter  lying  senseless  in  his 
arms,  was  the  stout  martial  figure  of  Duncan  Roy. 
With  a  laugh  that  made  every  echo  of  the  wild  glen 
tremble,  he  sliouted  the  fearful  war-cry  of  his  clan  ; 
and  while  the  thrilling  "  Follow  me  I"  yelled  through 
every  corner  of  the  liills,  the  boat  seemed  to  leap  on 
the  waters  that  bore  it  away. 

Pursuit  was  hopeless  ;  yet  the  three  aged  men  and  the 
little  crew  of  boys  attempted  it  while  the  helpless  lady 
and  her  maids  ran  to  and  fro  upon  the  rocky  margin 
of  the  lake  in  perfect  agony.  The  audacious  victors 
suddenly  struck  up  one  of  the  wild  boat-songs  of  their 


222  MACALISTER  MORE. 

country,  keeping  time  in  insulting  chorus  to  their  oars ; 
but  gradually  their  measured  strains  died  away,  the 
proud  form  of  Duncan  Roy  grew  indistinct  as  they 
watched  him,  and  the  boat  he  had  so  dearly  freighted 
became  a  mere  speck  on  the  distant  waters. 

MacAlisler's  daughter  recovered  from  her  swoon  of 
fear  before  she  had  quite  reached  the  opposite  shore. 
There  another  scene  of  dread  awaited  her.  The  Tu- 
tor of  Wevys  had  long  been  preparing  for  this  bold  at- 
tempt; it  was  one  of  his  settled  plans  of  revenge,  and 
he  had  not  entered  upon  it  carelessly.  At  the  further 
end  of  the  loch  a  chosen  band  of  his  adherents  awaited 
him,  leading  several  of  the  little  spirited  ponies  of  their 
country.  On  one  did  the  ferocious  Tutor  place,  with 
all  the  gallantry  of  his  nature,  his  trembling  prisoner  ; 
and  comforting  her  in  the  gentlest  tone  he  could  sub- 
due his  haughty  voice  to  speak  in,  he  seized  himself 
the  bridle,  and  directing  at  once  the  disposal  of  his 
troop,  he  gave  the  brisk  time  of  their  march,  by  begin- 
ning, with  all  the  spirit  of  his  race,  the  heart-stirring 
air  of  "  Come  away  with  me,  lady  1" 

The  party  trampled  loudly  on  over  the  stony  paths 
of  the  corrys  and  the  wide  heaths  that  succeeded 
them,  till  they  reached  a  ford  on  the  rapid  river  that 
bounded  the  plains  of  the  property  of  MacAhster. — 
They  stopped  before  they  prepared  to  pass  it ;  and 
prying  round  them  through  the  gloom,  checked  their 
progress  for  a  few  short  moments,  then  gathering 
firmly,  at  a  v.'ord  they  silently  plunged  into  the  cur- 
rent. The  moon,  which  had  hitherto  been  concealed 
by  the  clouds  of  a  lowering  sky,  now  burst  from  be- 
hind the  distant  mountains,  as  if  to  afford  the  unfortu- 
nate young  lady  a  last  view  of  the  home  of  her  child- 
hood. She  had  hitherto  pursued  her  way  in  silence, 
hardly  replying  to  the  occasional  gallantries  of  her 
guide ;  but  now,  when  every  liope  of  redress  seemed 
fled,  unable  longer  to  control  her  griefs,  she  gave  loose 
to  her  tears,  and  leaning  forward  on  the  shoulder  of 


3rACAI.ISTEK  I\IORE.  'SZo 

lipr  conductor,  slie  uttered  a  few  words  of  gentle  en- 
treatjs  which  were  afterwards  wove  into  a  pathetic 
Gaelic  song  by  the  bard  of  her  family,  known  as  "  the 
Lady's  supplication  to  Duncan  Roy."  The  sweet  tones 
of  her  voice,  and  the  tender,  confiding  manner  she  as- 
sumed towards  him,  seemed  to  make  some  impression 
on  the  stern  temper  of  the  Tutor.  lie  turned  and 
looked  on  her,  and  gazed  on  her  pale  features  as  they 
escaped  from  the  drapery  of  the  scarlet  plaid  she  had 
thrown  over  her  jet-black  hair.  He  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment only,  then  slowly  shaking  liis  head,  he  began  to 
sing  one  of  the  enchanting  melodies  of  his  peculiar 
country,  giving  a  pathos  to  the  recurring  chorus, — 
"Horo  Mhairi  Dhul"  "My  Mary,  turn  to  mel"  very 
little  suitable  to  the  cliaracter  for  ferocity  which  he 
bore.  The  change  in  the  style  of  his  gallantry  did  not 
escape  the  beautiful  Mhairi ;  but,  alas  !  she  felt  it  ren- 
dered  her  condition  more  hopeless.  She  performed  the 
rest  of  her  journey  in  resigned  despair  ;  and  the  histo- 
rians of  her  day  relate,  not  without  a  comment,  that 
when  slie  reached  the  castle  of  the  Lordof  Wevys,  she 
gave  her  hand,  young  and  lovely  as  she  Vv-as,  without 
apparent  struggle,  to  his  uncle. 

It  would  be  vain  to  try  to  describe  the  ungovernable 
rage  of  MacAlister.  Revenge — speedy,  direful,  dread- 
ful,— was  his  only  occupation.  Furious  from  hate  and 
passion,  he  drove  on  his  preparations  ;  and  not  trust- 
ing alone  to  his  private  injuries,  he  espoused,  in  addi- 
tion to  his  particular  resentments,  the  wrongs  of  the 
young  Baron  of  Wevys,  his  lady's  nephew,  whom  he 
asserted  to  be  the  innocent  victim  of  his  uncle's  ambi- 
tion. The  justice  of  his  cause  gained  him  powerful 
assistance  ;  but  not  content  with  this,  and  determined 
that  no  heiress  should  increase  the  pride  of  Duncan 
Roy,  he  instantly  entailed  the  succession  to  his  pro- 
perty on  the  male  line  only,  cutting  off,  with  the  unan- 
imous  consent  of  his  people,  his  daughter  and  all  her 
descendants.     To  prove  himself  in  eai'ncst,  he  adopted 


224  ?.rACALISTEK  ?.rOTlE. 

his  nearest  of  kin  that  moment  into  his  family,  ac- 
knowledged him  his  heir,  and  treated  him  thencefor- 
ward as  his  son. 

The  Tutor  of  Wevys  awaited  with  fortitude  the  com- 
ing storm,  and  he  bore  the  news  of  his  lady's  loss  vrith 
a  smile  of  contemptuous  anger.  His  revenge  was  not 
the  less  successful  that  it  had  forced  MacAlister  to 
such  a  step  against  his  only  child.  One  piece  of  for- 
tune, too,  was  in  reserve  for  him — his  nephew  died. 
How  this  obstruction  to  the  Tutor's  schemes  came  to 
be  thus  suddenly  removed  at  so  critical  a  point  of  his 
affairs,  the  legends  of  the  house  of  Wevys  have  not  in- 
formed posterity  ;  but  they  tell  that  Duncan  Roy  made 
a  kind  husband  lo  the  beautiful  jMhairi,  and,  as  there 
was  no  rival  to  dispute  her  state,  't  was  said  that,  even 
in  the  young  lord's  lifetime,  MacAlisler's  daughter 
ceased  after  a  while  to  regret  the  less  dignified  home 
she  had  quitted. 

Just  at  this  eventful  period,  the  national  troubles, 
wliich  had  so  deeply  agitated  the  southern  parts  of  the 
kingdom,  began  to  make  their  way  into  the  Higlands  ; 
and  as  the  strife  between  the  unfortunate  King  Charles 
and  his  people  heightened,  the  private  animosities  this 
contention  fostered,  blazed  forth  with  a  fury  that  quick- 
ly desolated  their  unhappy  country.  The  Tutor  of 
Wevj's  and  MacAlister  3[orc  of  course  took  opposite 
sides.  Duncan  Roy  was  one  of  those  Vv'ho  most  fear- 
lessly aided  a  sinking  cause,  rallying  again  and  again 
by  the  side  of  many  an  heroic  leader.  But  with  tlie 
failure  of  the  Duke  of  Hamilton's  enterprise,  the  royal 
party  seemed  to  expire ;  the  execution  of  the  King,  and 
the  flight  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  damped  the  energies 
of  the  most  daring.  The  bright  and  dazzling  daj' of 
Montrose's  successless  valor  could  not  arouse  them  ; 
and  Duncan  Roy  sav/  himself  a  houseless,  landless, 
and  proscribed  fugitive.  A  price  vras  set  upon  his 
head ;  his  lands  were  forfeited,  and  given,  as  the  only 


MACALISTER  nIOKE.  225 

means  of  insuring  the  execution  of  the  rentencc,  to  liis 
vindictive  enemy,  MacAlistcr  More. 

MacAlister  instantly  proceeded  to  take  rigorous 
possession  of  his  new  property  ;  but  its  lord  escaped 
iiis  vengeance.  He  v/as  said  to  have  transported  him- 
self  beyond  seas,  and  to  have  joined  his  wandering 
sovereign  abroad ;  thougli  there  were  many  who  be- 
lieved he  still  lingered  in  some  secure  retreat  among 
his  own  mountains. 

The  lady  of  Wevys  had  been  allowed  to  remain  in 
lier  husband's  castle ;  and  there,  after  a  separation  of 
so  many  years,  did  she  receive  her  father.  She  enter- 
tained him  v/ith  the  respect  that  was  due  to  him  ;  but 
she  obtruded  herself  rarely  into  his  presence.  She 
was  occupied,  as  was  the  custom  of  her  times,  in  the 
domestic  arrangements  of  her  family.  It  was  whis- 
pered  among  a  few  of  her  servants,  that  more  provis- 
ions were  prepared  than  ever  quite  appeared  upon  the 
strangers'  tables  ;  and  't  was  thought,  too,  that  she 
often  looked  wearied  at  the  morning's  meal ;  and  two 
of  her  most  favored  maids  were  sometimes  observed 
skulking  out  towards  the  gloaming ;  but  these  suspic- 
ions never  reached  the  ears  of  Mac Alister,  nor  did  one 
of  the  faithful  followers  of  her  house  breathe  them  till 
calmer  times. 

MacAlister  More  speedily  retired  to  his  parental  in- 
heritance,  carrying  his  daughter  along  with  hhn.  He 
treated  her  as  a  sort  of  state  prisoner  ;  and  't  was  said 
i.he  drooped  and  pined  away  from  the  day  of  her  forced 
return  to  her  father's  home. 

Things  went  on  pretty  quietly  with  MacAlister  More 
and  his  new  followers,  till  it  came  to  the  time  of  draw- 
ing his  first  rents.  One  and  all  refused  to  pay  them  ; 
and  MacAlister  was  preparing  more  violent  means  to 
enforce  obedience,  when  his  easily-kindled  rage  was 
provoked  to  the  height  by  a  secret  message  from  Glen- 
Wevys.  Duncan  Roy  was  known  to  be  there  con- 
cealed. Uncertain  how  far  his  rival's  influence  might 
19 


226  MACALISTER  MORE. 

have  spread,  and  extremely  suspicious  of  the  sentiments 
of  his  new  vassals,  MacAlister,  determined  on  his  de. 
struction,  applied  for  the  assistance  of  government. 
A  troop  of  dragoons  was  despatched  to  relieve  him;  and 
with  these,  to  the  horror  of  the  Highlanders,  crusii 
at  once  every  s^-mptom  of  rebellion. 

Duncan  R03'  had  never  left  his  country.  He  had 
been  faithfully  secreted  in  a  cave  a  short  distance 
from  his  castle,  where,  during  the  whole  time  of  Mac 
Alister's  residence,  he  had  been  visited  constantly  by 
his  lady  and  a  few  confidential  attendants,  who  had 
regularly  supplied  him  with  food.  He  had  intended, 
when  the  first  heat  of  pursuit  was  over,  to  try  to  es- 
cape to  France  ;  but  for  this  purpose  it  was  necessary 
to  obtain  such  funds  as  would  enable  him  to  cross  the 
seas  with  decency.  As  soon  as  MacAlister  and  his 
followers  had  retired,  he  ventured  cautiously  from  his 
hiding-place  ;  and  finding  his  party  stronger  than  his 
ill  fortune  at  first  made  him  look  for,  he  took  up  his 
temporary  abode  in  a  hut  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  moun- 
tain, m  a  retired  corner  of  his  property,  whence  he 
could  easily  escape,  by  a  hill-path  not  generally  knovni, 
to  the  ocean.  In  the  dead  of  the  night,  before  that 
dawn  which  was  to  witness  his  departure,  his  adhe- 
rents were  secretly  assembled  m  the  small  cottage,  to 
renew  their  oaths  of  allegiance,  to  receive  fresh  tacks 
of  their  farms,  and  to  pay  him  their  last  year's  rents 
they  had  refused  to  the  call  of  MacAlister.  They  were 
sitting  sadly  together,  hurrying  over  their  business  with 
the  stealthy  eagerness  of  fear,  when  they  were  alarmed 
by  a  hasty  step,  and  a  rap  against  the  door  of  the  cot- 
tage. It  could  be  no  foe  who  moved  so  secretly  ;  but, 
to  guard  against  surprise,  the  party  ranged  themselves 
round  their  lord  ;  and  the  constant  companion  of  all 
his  fortunes — his  second  in  every  victory,  his  follower 
in  every  difficulty,  the  handsomest  of  his  race,  and  the 
hero  of  his  clan — the  young  and  gallant  Callum-a- 
Glinne,  Malcolm  o'  the  Glen,  rushed  towards  the  guard. 


MACALISTER  MORE.  227 

eJ  door.  lie  opened  it  hastily,  and  the  breathless 
messenger  ahuost  dropped  into  his  arms.  "  The  dra- 
goons I"  was  all  that  he  had  strength  to  utter — all  that 
there  v/as  time  to  hear  ;  for,  amidst  the  stillness  of 
night,  and  the  trembling  silence  of  the  Baron's  vassals, 
there  came  sweeping  through  the  air  the  fast  approach. 
ing  tramp  of  the  troop  at  full  gallop.  Cullum-a-Gliune 
and  the  Lord  of  Wevys  rushed  from  the  cottage. — 
Hardly  had  they  turned  the  projecting  corner,  when 
the  clash  of  rattling  arms  rang  through  the  gloom  of 
night,  and  the  stern  "  Halt !"  of  the  English  officer 
thrilled  on  every  ear.  The  dragoons  instantly  dis- 
mounted ;  and  entering  the  cottage,  seized  the  whole 
party  it  contained.  Duncan  Roy  was  not  among  them; 
and  the  troopers,  little  accustomed  to  Highland  war. 
fare,  and  satisfied  with  their  close  examination,  would 
have  at  once  retreated  ;  but  by  the  side  of  their  com- 
manding officer  rode  MacAlistcr  More.  Sure  of  his 
intelligence,  and,  from  the  consternation  of  the  party 
and  tlie  persons  of  vdiom  it  vras  composed,  almost  cer- 
tain of  his  prey,  he  was  in  no  mood  to  relinquish  his 
liopes  of  vengeance.  Turning  towards  the  craggy  hill 
at  the  foot  of  which  they  stood,  he  briefly  explained 
the  possibility  of  flight  in  that  direction.  The  officer 
looked  up  at  the  precipice  with  incredulity,  and  the 
troopers  clustered  together,  without  expecting  orders 
to  advance. 

The  gray  dawn  was  now  breaking.  MacAlistcr, 
laying  his  heavy  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  officer,  point- 
ed to  a  rock  not  high  above  them,  and  showed  him  two 
moving  figures  creeping  noiselessly  along  its  edge. — 
MacAlistcr  More  sprang  forward,  and  bounding  up  the 
nearest  ascent,  lea2}ed  towards  his  enemy.  Strong, 
hrm,  and  active,  though  his  dhnensions  were  gigantic, 
and  he  was  past  the  middle  age,  lie  gained  apace  upon 
his  flying  foe,  who,  large,  thick-set,  and  heavy,  and 
furious  at  the  necessity  which  urged  him  to  flight  who 
never  yet  liad  failed  to  face  his  danger,  made  slower 


2"28  3IACALISTER  3I0RE. 

progress  towards  the  summit.  He  fled,  but  with  a 
tardy  step ;  and  MacAlister  pursued  with  the  fury  of 
long-delayed  vengeance.  The  heavy  step  of  Duncan 
Roy  lagged  on  the  uneasy  ground,  and  the  springing 
course  of  MacAlister  had  brought  hira  almost  to  his 
side.  One  rugged  craig  was  alone  between  them. — 
Duncan  Roy  had  gained  its  top  ;  and  MacAlister  had 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  fragment  which  he  meant  should 
support  his  well-aimed  bound.  Duncan  Roy  stopped, 
turning  round,  stood  resolutely  upon  the  edge  of  the 
precipice.  He  half-unsheathed  his  ponderous  broad- 
sword ;  and,  fixing  his  eyes  with  the  glare  of  a  savage 
on  his  enemy,  he  grinned  horribly  through  the  double 
rov.-s  of  teeth  with  which  nature  had  so  fearfully 
armed  him.  The  dragoons  were  still  far  below,  plac- 
ing their  reluctant  footsteps  on  the  rocky  ascent. — 
There  was  time  for  a  mortal  struggle  ;  but  as  thcv 
darted  towards  each  other,  Cullum-a-Glinne  rushed 
before  them,  and  crying  aloud  to  his  lord  to  flee,  he 
sprung  fearlessly  upon  the  point  of  rock  on  which  Mac 
Alister  in  vain  attempted  to  secure  a  footing.  Fa- 
vored  by  his  situation,  he  checked  every  movement  of 
the  desperate  chieftain,  up  or  down,  here  or  there,  at 
every  turn  he  presented  his  matchless  sword-arm. — 
Foiled  in  every  eftbrt,  MacAlister  More  gnashed  his 
teeth  in  sullen  rage  ;  and  collecting  his  utmost  strength 
for  one  last  determined  struggle,  he  rushed  forwards. 
The  dragoon?  had  now^  nearly  reached  the  spot,  and 
the  faithful  Highlander  saw  himself  upon  the  point  of 
being  overwhelmed  by  numbers.  In  this  extremity,  he 
seized  a  moment  which  the  ungarded  madness  of  Mac 
Alister  presented,  and  letting  fall  a  heavy  blow  with 
the  back  of  his  broad-sword,  he  hurled  him  senseless 
from  his  insecure  position.  The  soldiers  darted  on- 
ward with  a  hideous  clamor  ;  they  surrounded  the 
rock  on  which  the  young  hero  stood,  and  assaulted 
hun  at  once  on  every  side  ;  but  Callum-a-Glinne  de- 
spised their  numbers.     It  was  not  for  his  own  life  he 


MACALISTEK  MORE.  229 

Ibiigiit.  Placing  his  back  against  a  higher  licr,  wJiich, 
unhappily,  reached  only  to  his  shoulders,  he  dealt  about 
him  with  the  energy  despair  alone  can  give.  For  long 
he  kept  the  whole  dragoons  at  bay ;  when,  alas  I  as  he 
was  raising  his  claymore  to  strike  a  more  than  ordina- 
rily adventurous  soldier,  the  weapon  fell  from  his 
nerveless  hand,  his  head  rolled  down  the  mountain 
side,  and  his  body  dropped  prostrate  on  the  narrow 
shelf — the  scene  of  his  heroic  bravery.  A  dragoon 
had,  unperceived,  stolen  along  round  up  the  rock,  and 
creeping  till  he  got  immediately  behind  the  point  he 
stood  on,  severed  at  one  stroke  of  his  sabre  his  head 
Irom  his  shoulders. 

His  grave,  or  rather  the  cairn  of  stones  which  his 
countrymen  gathered  on  his  remains,  is  visited  to  this 
day  with  respect. 

But  the  murder  of  the  gallant  Malcolm  came  too 
late.  Duncan  Roy  got  clear  away  ;  and  MacAlister 
iMore,  on  recovering  from  his  trance,  saw  that  pursuit 
was  needless. 

Years  passed  away,  and  nothing  was  heard  of  the 
fate  of  the  Lord  of  Wevys.  How  he  fled,  or  where  he 
wandered,  never,  even  in  a  whisper,  reached  the  glen 
of  the  MacAlistcrs.  His  lady  and  his  pretty  boy  never 
returned  to  his  property,  and  his  vassals  were  obliged 
reluctantly  to  submit,  without  reserve,  to  their  con- 
queror.  One  stormy  winter's  night,  MacAlister  got 
news  from  a  hasty  messenger,  which  entirely  disturbed 
his  temper.  He  told  none  the  cause  of  his  disorder, 
nor  did  he  change  in  aught  the  disposition  of  his  house- 
hold  ;  but  he  barred  with  his  own  hands  the  door  of 
his  daughter's  chamber  before  he  retired  to  rest.  Did 
he  rest  ?  His  lady^  on  the  following  day,  appeared 
fixed  with  horror  ;  MacAlister  himself  was  wild  and 
uneasy  ;  and  the  mysterious  looks  of  his  two  most 
trusted  followers,  his  he''*  in^'  bis  hpr.r»VimoM  <r.iri  r,^ 
some  fearful  deed. 
19* 


230  XACALISTEK  MOKE. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  family  burying-ground,  in 
the  churchyard,  there  lay  a  new-made  grave  ;  and 
traces  of  blood,  and  marks  of  long  and  mortal  strug- 
gle were  seen  in  a  little  woody  dell,  not  many  paces 
from  the  castle.  Three  times,  by  order  of  MacAlister, 
was  that  new-made  grave  burst  open,  and  three  times, 
in  defiance  of  the  dread  and  horror  of  his  deed,  was 
ihe  plaid-bound  corpse  it  enclosed,  hurled  from  its  place 
of  rest.  It  was  thrown  on  the  bare  heath — it  was  laid 
in  the  bloody  dell — it  was  sunk  in  the  gloomy  lake ; 
but  the  heath — the  dell — the  water,  were  alike  treach- 
erous to  MacAlister.  The  grave  would  not  remain 
untenanted  ;  and  MacAlister,  after  his  third  attempt, 
dared  not  dispute  with  fate  ;  but,  to  his  dying  day,  he 
frowned  when  he  passed  that  grave. 

He  never  prospered  more.  His  daughter,  who,  till 
then,  had  been,  since  her  restoration  to  him,  gentle 
and  dutiful,  altered  her  carriage  from  that  hour.  She 
never  saw  him  again  ;  and  she  retired  to  a  small  tower 
in  an  unfrequented  corner  of  the  glen,  still  called  the 
Lady's  Tower,  where  she  lived  a  few  sad  years  in  ex. 
treme  seclusion ;  and  she  followed  her  pretty  boy  to 
the  tomb  he  early  sunk  into,  long  years  before  her  stern 
father's  raven  locks  grew  gray.  Her  story  has  been 
the  constant  theme  of  all  the  bards  of  her  country. — 
There  is  scarcely  an  event  of  her  own  or  her  husband's 
life,  which  has  not  been  commemorated  by  the  Gaelic 
poets.  The  MacAlisters,  however,  do  not  like  to  al- 
lude to  her  history  ;  and  it  would  liave  been  very  im- 
perfectly known  to  me,  had  I  not  had  the  good  for- 
tune  to  gain  the  confidence  of  my  friend,  the  minis, 
ter. 


231 

BY  3IRS.  C.  BARON  WILSON. 

The  moon  glitters  over  the  sea, 

Whose  waters  are  tinged  with  her  light ; 
No  eomrade  is  waking  with  me, 

To  look  on  the  calmness  of  night. 
As  I  pace  the  lone  deck,  by  yon  pale  guiding  slar^ 

Thoughts  steal  o'er  me,  that  come  not  by  day  ; 
Like  a  beautiful  vision  I  see  from  afar 

My  home,  'mid  its  mountains  of  gray  I 

Fancy  pictures  those  bright  summer  hours, 

Ere  the  dial  of  life  knew  a  shade, 
When  each  pathway  was  covered  with  llowers, 

Where  in  childhood's  young  morning  1  strayed  , 
Then  the  weed-covered  pond  was  an  ocean  to  me, 

As  my  toy-ship  skimmed  over  its  green  ; 
And  I  wished  in  my  heart  a  young  sailor  to  be — 

As  all  my  forefathers  had  been  1 

Nor  long  were  those  wishes  dela3'cd  ; 

Boyhood's  canvass  was  scarcely  unfurled 
Ere  I  sailed,  when  hope's  anchor  was  weighed 

To  meet  the  rough  waves  of  the  world ! 
How  swelled  my  proud  heart,  as  my  mother  first  met 

The  young  tar  in  his  jacket  of  blue  I 
Her  half-faltered  blessing  I  ne'er  shall  forget, 

As  she  sobbed — "  To  your  duty  be  true." 

I  have  been  so  ; — through  sunshine  and  storm — 
Whether  fortune  may  ebb  or  may  flow  ; 

1  've  a  heart  for  my  country  still  warm, 
And  an  arm  that  shall  conquer  each  foe. 


232  LOVE  AiND  HOPE. 

Thus  when  the  crew  moor  in  their  hammocks  to  real, 
Thoughts  hail  me,  that  come  not  by  day  ; 

And  waft  me  far  lieiice  to  that  spot  ever  blessed, 
The  home  of  my  youth,  far  away. 


BY  MRS.  TURNBULL, 


As  young  Love  and  Hope  together  were  rovmg, 
And  boasting  of  those  they  fondly  were  loving, 
The  sky  v/as  all  sunshine,  earth  full  of  fair  flowers. 
And  Joy  with  old  Time  danced  away  the  bright  hours 


But  Cupid  was  always  a  changeable  boy. 

And  the  hearts  he  once  played  with,  he  longed  to 

destroy  ; 
So  he  parted  with  Hope  with  a  petulant  air, 
And  took  to  his  councils  her  rival,  Despair. 


With  such  a  companion  it  soon  became  known. 
That  dimples  and  smiles  from  his  godship  had  flown, 
And  young  hearts  were  withered,  and  bright  eyes  grew 

dim, 
As  they  gazed  on  the  spectre  so  different  to  hhu. 


But  Love  became  tired  of  sighs  and  of  tears, 
And  recalled  back  the  friend  of  his  happier  years ; 
From  that  moment,  whenever  the  god  spread  his  snare, 
The  net-vvork  was  woven  by  Hope  and  Despair. 


233 

BY  ELIZA  COOK. 

Talk  who  will  of  the  world  as  a  detiert  of  Ihrall, 
Yet — yet,  there  is  bloom  on  \hc  waste; 

Though  the  chalice  ot'Jile  hath  its  acid  and  gall, 
There  arc  honey-drops  too  for  the  taste. 

We  murmur  and  droop  should  a  sorrow-cloud  stay, 

And  note  all  the  shades  of  our  lot ; 
But  the  rich  scintillations  tliat  brighten  our  way, 

Are  basked  in,  ciijoycd,  and  forgot. 

Those  who  look  on  mortality's  ocean  aright, 
Will  not  moan  o'er  each  billow  that  rolls. 

Hut  dwell  on  the  glories,  the  beauties,  the  might, 
As  much  as  the  shipwrecks  and  slioals. 

How  thankless  is  he,  who  remembers  alone 
All  the  bitter,  the  drear,  and  the  dark, 

Though  the  raven  may  scare  with  its  wo-boding  ton 
Do  we  ne'er  hear  the  song  of  the  lark  ? 

We  may  utter  farewell  when  't  is  torture  to  part, 

JJut  in  meeting  the  dear  one  again. 
Have  we  never  rejoiced  with  that  wildncss  of  heart 

Which  outbalances  ages  of  pain  ? 

Who  hath  not  had  moments  so  laden  with  bliss, 

When  the  soul  in  iis  fulness  of  love 
\Vould  waver,  if  bidden  to  choose  between  this 

And  the  paradise  promised  above  ? 


234  THE  WORLD. 

Though  the  eye  may  be  diinmed  with  ils  gricf-drop 
awhile, 

x\nd  the  whitened  hp  sigh  forth  its  fear, 
Yet  pensive  indeed  is  that  face  where  the  smile 

Is  not  ofLener  seen  than  the  tear. 

There  are  times  wlien  the  storm-gust  may  rattle 
around, 
There  are  spots  where  the  poison-slirub  grows  ; 
Yet  are  there  not  hours  when  nought  else  can  be 
found 
But  the  south  wind,  the  sunshine  and  rose  ? 

O  haplessly  rare  is  the  portion  that 's  ours, 

And  strange  is  the  path  that  we  take, 
If  there  spring  not  beside  us  a  few  precious  flowera 

To  soften  the  thorn  and  the  brake. 

The  wail  of  regret,  the  rude  clashing  of  strife, 

The  soul's  harmony  often  may  mar  ; 
But  I  think  wc  iiiiist  own,  in  the  discords  of  life, 

'T  is  ourselves  that  oft  waken  the  jar. 

Earth  is  not  all  fair,  yet  it  is  not  all  gloom, 

And  the  voice  of  the  grateful  will  tell, 
That  He  who  allotted  Pain,  Death,  and  the  Tomb, 

Gave  Hope,  Health,  and  the  Bridal  as  well. 

Should  Fate  do  its  worst,  and  my  spirit  oppressed 

O'er  its  own  shatter'd  happiness  pine. 
Let  me  witness  the  joy  in  another's  glad  breast, 

And  some  pleasure  ynust  kindle  in  mine. 

Then  say  not  the  world  is  a  desert  of  thrall. 
There  is  bloom,  there  is  light  on  the  waste  ; 

Though  the  chalice  of  life  hath  its  acid  and  gall 
There  arc  honey-drops  too  for  the  taste. 


235 

BY  MUS.  CRAWFORD. 

Farewell,  ye  myrtle  bowers, 

Elysiaii  haunts  of  love — 
Ye  garlands  of  sweet  flowers, 

For  Leonora  wove  I 
Farewell  dear  liberty, 

As  love  itself  supreme  ! 
Hope  has  no  gifts  for  me  ; 

And  mein'ry,  shadowy  dream, 
Like  moonlight  shed  on  beauty's  tomb, 
But  coldly  lights  my  prison  gloom. 

Ye  walls,  where  madness  dwells, 

And  mindless  beings  roOse 
'I'he  echoes  of  rude  cells, 

Ye  witness  Tasso's  vows. 
Dear  cause  of  all  the  tears, 

That  wash  my  galling  chain, — 
Of  all  the  wrongs  of  years, 

That  cloud  my  heart  and  brain  ! 
Sweet  mistress  of  my  thoughts  and  fate 
Dost  thou  not  piiy  Tasso's  state  ? 

Oh  !  bring  me  cypress  drear 

To  bind  my  captive  lyre, 
And  let  my  deep  despair 

Thrill  every  trembling  wire, 
fome,  wilding  harp,  awake, 

Beneath  .thy  master's  touch. 
And  tell  how  hearts  will  break, 

That  love  hath  troubled  much  ; 
How,  by  our  warm  affections  we 
Throw  off  this  cold  mortalitv. 


23G 


BY  MRS.   S.  C.  HALL. 

Annie  Leslie  was  neither  a  belle  nor  a  beauty — a 
gentlewoman,  nor  yet  an  absolute  peasant — "  a  for- 
tune," nor  entirely  devoid  of  dower  ; — although  born 
upon  a  farm  tliat  adjoined  ray  native  village  of  Ban- 
now,  she  might  almost  have  been  called  a  flower  of 
many  lands  ;  for  her  mother  u^as  a  Scot,  her  father  an 
Englishman  ;  one  set  of  grand-parents  Welsh — and  it 
was  said  that  the  others  were  (although  I  never  be- 
lieved it,  and  always  thought  it  a  gossiping  story) 
Italians,  or  foreigners,  "  from  beyant  the  salt  sea."  It 
was  a  very  charming  pastime  to  trace  the  different 
countries  in  Annie's  sweet,  expressive  countenance. — 
Ill-natured  people  said  she  had  a  red  Scottish  head, 
which  I  declare  to  be  an  absolute  story.  The  maiden's 
hair  was  not  red  ;  it  v/as  a  bright  chestnut,  and  glow- 
ing as  a  sun-beam — perhaps  in  particular  lights  it  might 
iiave  had  a  tinge — but  nonsense  I  it  was  any  thing  but 
red  ;  the  cheek-bone  was  certainly  elevated,  yet  who 
ever  thought  of  that,  when  gazing  on  the  soft  cheek, 
now  delicate  as  the  bloom  on  the  early  peach — now 
purely  carnationed,  as  if  the  eloquent  color  longed  to 
eclipse  the  beauty  of  the  black  lustrous  eyes,  that  were 
shaded  by  long,  long,  eye-lashes,  delicately  turned  up 
at  the  points,  as  if  anxious  to  act  as  conductors  to  my 
young  friend's  merry  glances,  of  which,  hou'ever,  I 
must  confess,  she  was  usually  chary  enough.  Her 
iigure  was,  unfortunately,  of  the  Principality,  being 
somewhat  of  the  shortest ;  but  her  fair  skin,  and  small, 
delicate  mouth,  told  of  English  descent.  Her  father 
was  a  respectable  farmer,  who  had  been  induced,  by 
some  circumstance  or  other,  to  settle  in  Ireland;  and 
lier  mother — but  what  have  I  to  do  with  either  her 
father  or  mother  just  no'.v  ? 


ANNIE  i.F.si.ir..  \:.>i 

The  sun-firers  liaJ  faded  in  l.lie  wcfjf,  and  Annie  was 
Irauinij  on  iha  neat  giccii  gate  lliat  led  lo  her  coUage, 
liLM-  eyes  wandering  down  llie  hranching  lane,  then  lo 
the  softening  sky,  and  not  unfrequently  to  a  little 
spotted  dog,  Phillis  by  natne,  who  sat  close  to  her  mis- 
tress's feet,  loaking  upwards,  and  occasionally  raising 
one  ear,  as  if  he  expected  somebody  to  join  their  parly. 
It  was  the  full  and  iragrant  season  of  hay -making,  and 
Annie  had  borne  her  part  in  the  cheerful  and  pleasant 
toil. 

A  blue  muslin  kercliief  was  sufficiently  open  todis- 
j'lay  her  well-formed  throat ;  one  or  two  wilful  ring- 
jets  had  escaped  from  under  her  straw  hat,  and  twisted 
themselves  into  very  picturesque,  coquettish  attitudes, 
tliaded,  but  not  hidden,  by  the  muslin  folds  ;  her  apron 
was  of  bright  check  ;  her  short  cotton  gown,  pinned  in 
the  national  three-cornered  fashion  behind,  and  her 
petticoat  of  scarlet  stutT,  displayed  her  small  and  deli- 
cately turned  ancle  to  nmcli  advantage.  She  held  a 
bunch  of  mixed  wild  flowers  in  her  hand,  and  her  fin- 
gers, naturally  addicted  to  mischief,  were  dexterously 
employed  in  scattering  the  petals  to  the  breeze,  whieli 
Kporled  them  amongst  the  long  grass. 

"Down,  Phillis! — down,  miss  I"  said  she  at  last  to 
ihe  little  dog,  v^'ho,  weary  of  rest,  stood  on  its  hind 
legs  to  kiss  her  hand  ;  "  down,  do,  ye're  always  merry 
when  I  am  sad,  and  that 's  not  kind  of  ye."  Tlie  ani- 
mal obeyed,  and  remained  very  tranquil,  until  its  mis. 
tress  unconsciously  murmured  to  herself — "  Do  I  re- 
ally love  him  ?"  Again  she  looked  down  the  lane,  and 
then,  after  giving  a  very  destructive  pull  to  one  of  the 
blossoms  of  a  v.'ild  rose  that  clothed  the  hedge  in  beau- 
ty, repeated,  somewhat  loader,  the  words,  "  Do  I  in- 
deed love  him  ?"  "  Never  say  tlie  word  twice — ye  do 
it  already,  ye  little  rogue  1"  replied  a  voice  thai,  sent 
an  instantaneous  gnsh  of  crimson  over  the  maiden's 
rheek — while,  from  amid  a  group  of  fragrant  elder- 
irecs,  which  grev;  out  of  the  uionnd  tl-.al  e;icomnas!eJ 
20 


238  AXNIE  LESLIE. 

the  cottage,  sprang  a  tall,  graceful  youtli,  who  ad- 
vanced towards  the  blufhing  maiden. 

I  am  sorry  for  it,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  an  incontro- 
vertible fact,  that  women,  young  and  old — some  more 
and  some  Ie?s — arc  all  naturally  perverse ;  they  can 
not,  I  believe,  help  it ;  but  their  so  being,  although  or. 
casionally  very  aaiusing  to  themselves,  is  undoubtedly 
very  trying  to  their  lovers,  whose  remonstrances  on 
the  subject,  since  the  days  of  Adam,  might  as  well 
have  been  given  to  the  winds. 

It  so  happened  that  James  Mc'Cleary  was  the  very 
person  Annie  Leslie  was  thinking  about ;  the  one  of  ail 
others  she  wished  to  see  ;  yet  the  love  of  tormenting, 
assisted,  perhaps,  by  a  little  mtiiden  coquetry,  prompted 
her  first  to  curl  her  pretty  Grecian  nof;c,  and  then  to 
bestow  a  hearty  cuft"  on  her  lover's  cheek  as  he  at- 
tempted to  salute  her  hand. 

"  Keep  your  distance,  sir,  and  don't  make  so  free  I" 
said  the  pettish  lady. 

"  Keep  my  distance,  Annie  I  Not  make  so  free  !" 
echoed  James  ;  "  an'  ye,  jist  this  minute,  after  talking 
about  loving  mo  I" 

"  Loving  you,  indeed  I  Mister  James  Mc'Clear)%  it 
v\-as  y'er  betters  I  was  thinking  of,  sir  ;  I  hope  I  know 
myself  too  well  for  that." 

"  My  betters,  Annie  ! — what's  come  over  ye  ?  Sure- 
ly ye  hav'n't  forgot  that  y'er  father  has  as  good  as 
given  his  consent ;  and  though  y'er  mother  is  partial 
to  Andrew  Furlong — the  tame  ncgur  I — jist  because 
he's  got  a  bigger  house  (sure,  it's  a  public,  and  can't  be 
called  his  own),  and  a  few  more  guineas  than  me,  and 
never  thinks  of  hi??. being  grayer  than  his  ould  gray 
mare — yet  she'll  come  round  ; — let  me  alone  to  man- 
age the  women — (nov/,  don't  look  angry) — and  didn't 
y'er  own  sweet  mouth  say  it,  not  two  hours  ago,  down 
bp  the  loch — and,  by  the  same  token,  Annie,  there's 
the  beautiful  curl  I  cut  off  with  the  reaping-hook — 
that,  however  ye  trate  m.e,  shall  slay  next  my  heart, 


ANNIE  LESLIE.  239 

as  long  as  it  hates — anci,  oh,  Annie  I  as  yc  sat  on  the 
mossy  stone,  I  thought  I  never  saw  ye  look  so  beauti- 
ful— with  that  very  bunch  of  flowers  that  ye'vc  been 
pulling  to  smithereens,  resting  on  y'er  lap.  And  it 
wasn't  altogether  what  ye  said,  but  what  ye  looked, 
that  put  the  life  in  mc  ;  though  yc  did  say — yc  know 
ye  did — 'James/  says  you,  '  I  hate  Andrew  Furlong, 
that  I  do,  and  I  '11  never  marry  him  as  long  as  grass 
grows  or  water  runs,  that  I  won't.'  Now,  sure,  An- 
nie, dear,  sweet  Annie  ! — sure  yc  're  not  going  against 
y'er  conscience,  and  the  word  o'  true  love." 

"  Sir,"  interrupted  Annie,  "  I  don't  like  to  be  found 
fault  with.  Andrew  Furlong  is,  what  my  mother  says, 
a  well-to-do,  dacent  man,  staid  and  steady.  I'll  trouble 
ye  for  my  curl.  Mister  James — clever  as  yc  are  at  man- 
aging the  women,  may-be  yc  can't  manage  me." 

James  had  been  very  unskilful  in  his  last  speech  ;  he 
ought  not  to  have  boasted  of  his  managing  powers, 
but  to  have  put  them  in  practice.  The  fact,  however, 
was,  that  though  proverbially  sober,  the  fatigue  of  hay- 
making, and  two  or  three  '  noggins'  of  Irish  grog,  had 
in  some  degree  bewildered  his  intellects  since  Annie':; 
return  from  the  meadow.  lie  looked  at  her  for  a  mo- 
ment,  drew  the  long  tress  of  hair  half  out  of  his  bosom, 
then  replaced  it,  buttoned  his  waistcoat  to  the  throat, 
as  if  determined  nothing  should  tempt  it  from  him, 
and  said  in  a  subdued  voice — 

"  Annie,  Annie  Leslie  I — like  a  darliut,  don't  be  so 
fractious — for  3'our  sake — for " 

"  My  sake,  indeed,  sir  I — My  sake  I — I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you — very  nmch — Mister  James;  but  let  me 
tell  ye,  yc  think  a  dale  too  nmch  of  y'ersclf  to  be  speak- 
ing to  me  after  that  fashion,  and  yc  inside  my  own 
gate;  if  ye  were  outside  I'd  tell  ye  my  mind;  but  1 
know  better  manners  than  to  insult  any  one  at  my  own 
door-stone.  It's  little  other  people  know  about  dacent 
breeding,  or  they'd  not  abuse  people's  friends  before 
people's  faces,  Mister  Jaaies  Mc'Cleary." 


210  A.NNIE  LESLIE. 

•'  I  f^ec  lio'.v  il  is,  ]Miss  Leslie,"  replied  James,  really 
angry  ;  "  ye've  resolved  to  sell  y'ev.self  for  y'cr  board 
and  Iodising  to  that  great  cask  of  London  porter,  An- 
drew Furlong  by  name,  and  a  booby  by  nature ;  but 
I'll  not  stay  in  the  place  to  witness  y'er  parjury — I'll 
go  to  sea,  or — I'll — " 

"Ye  may  go  where  ye  like,  responded  the  maiden, 
who  now  thought  herself  a  much  aggrieved,  injured 
person,  "  and  the  sooner  the  better  1"  She  threw  the 
remains  of  the  faded  nosegay  from  her,  and  opened  the 
green  gate  at  the  same  instant ;  the  gate  which  not 
ten  minutes  before  she  had  rested  on.  thinking  of 
James  M'Cleary — thinking  that  he  was  the  best  wrest- 
ler, the  best  hurlcr,  the  best  dancer,  and  the  most  so- 
ber lad  in  the  country ; — thinking,  moreover,  that  he 
was  as  handsome,  if  not  as  genteel,  as  the  young 
'squire  ;  and  wondering  if  he  would  always  love  her  as 
dearly  as  he  did  then.  Yet,  in  her  perversity,  she 
flung  back  the  gate  for  the  faithful  minded  to  pass 
from  her  cottage,  careless  of  consequences,  and,  at  the 
moment,  really  believing  that  she  loved  Iiim  not.  So 
much  for  a  wilful  woman,  before  she  knows  the  value 
of  earth's  greatest  treasure — an  honest  heart. 

"Since  it's  come  to  this,"  said  poor  James,  "any 
how  bid  me  good  bye,  Annie. — What,  not  one  '  God  be 
Vi-id  j'e,'  to  him  vv'lio  will  soon  be  on  the  salt — salt  sea  ?" 
But  Annie  looked  more  angry  than  before  ;  thinking, 
while  he  spoke,  that  lie  would  come  back  fast  cnougli 
to  her  window  next  morning,  bringing  fresh  grass  for 
her  kid,  or  food  for  her  young  linnets,  or,  perchance, 
flowers  to  deck  her  hair;  or  (if  he  luckily  met  Peggy 
the  fisher)  a  new  blue  silk  neckerchief  as  a  peace-offer- 
ing. 

"  Well,  God's  blcfsing  be  about  ye,  Annie  ;  and  may 
ye  never  feel  what  1  do  now  I"  So  saying,  the  young 
man  rushed  down  the  green  lane,  frighting  the  wood- 
pigeons  from  their  repose,  and  putting  to  flight  the 
limid  hare  and  tender  leveret,  who  sought  their  eve- 


AXXIE  LESLIE.  241 

ing  meal  wlicro  the  dew  fell  thickly  and  tiie  clover 
was  most  luxuriant.  There  was  a  fearful  reality  about 
the  youth's  farewell  that  startled  the  maiden,  obsti. 
nate  as  she  was ; — her  heart  beat  violently,  and  the 
demon  of  coquetry  was  overpowered  by  her  naturally 
affectionate  feelings.  She  called,  faintly  at  first, 
'•  James,  James,  dear  James  ;"  and  poor  little  Phillls 
scampered  down  the  lane,  as  if  she  comprehended  her 
mistress's  wish.  Presently,  Annie  was  certain  she 
hoard  footsteps  approaching ;  her  first  movement  was 
to  spring  forv.-ard,  and  her  next  (alas,  for  coquetry  I) 
to  retire  into  the  parlor  and  await  the  return  of  lier 
lover  ; — "  what  she  wished  to  be  true  love  bade  her  be- 
lieve;" there  she  stood,  her  eyes  freed  from  their  tears, 
and  turned  from  the  open  window.  Presently  the  gate 
was  unlatched  ;  in  another  moment  a  hand  softly 
pressed  her  arm,  and  a  deep-drawn  sigh  broke  upon 
her  ear. 

"  He  is  very  sorry,"  thought  she,  "  and  so  am  I." 
She  turned  round,  and  beheld  the  good-humored  rosy 
face  of  mine  host  of  the  public  ;  his  yellow  bob-wig  ev- 
idently placed  over  his  gray  hair  ;  his  Sunday  suit 
well  brushed ;  and  his  embroidered  waistcoat  (pea- 
green  ground,  with  blue  roses  and  scarlet  lilies)  cov- 
ering, by  its  immense  lapelles,  no  very  juvenile  rotun- 
dity of  figure.  Poor  Annie  !  she  was  absolutely  dumb; 
had  Andrew  been  an  horned  owl  she  could  not  have 
shrunk  with  more  horror  from  his  grasp.  Her  silence 
afforded  her  senior  lover  an  opportunity  of  uttering,  or 
rather  growling  forth,  liis  'proposal.'  "Ye  see,  Miss 
Leslie,  I  see  no  reason  why  we  two  shouldn't  be  mar- 
ried, because  I  have  more  regard  for  _ve,  tin  to  one, 
than  any  young  fellow  could  liave  ;  for  I  am  a  man  of 
exparience,  and  know  wrong  from  right,  and  right 
from  wrong — which  is  all  one.  .  Y'er  father,  l)ut  more 
especially  y'er  mother  (who  has  oceans  of  sense,  for  a 
woman),  are  for  me ;  and,  beautiful  as  ye  are.  and 
more  beautiful  for  sartin  than  any  girl  in  tlic  land,  yet 
20* 


242  ANNIE  LESLIE. 

ye  can't  know  what's  ^ood  for  ye  as  well  as  they  I 
And  ye  shall  have  a  jaunting-car — a  bran  new  jaunt- 
ing-car of  y'er  own,  to  go  to  mass  or  church,  as  may 
suit  y'er  conscience,  for  I'd  be  far  from  putting  a  chain 
upon  ye,  barring  one  of  roses,  which  cupid  Avaves.  as 
the  song  says,  '  for  all  true  constant  loviers.'  Now, 
miss,  macree,  it  being  all  settled — for  sure  ye're  too 
wise  to  refuse  sich  an  offer  I — here,  on  my  two  bare 
knees,  in  the  moon-bames — that  Romeyo  swore  by,  in 
the  play  I  saw  when  I  was  as  good  as  own  man  to  an 
honorable  member  o'  parliament,  (it  was  in  this  ser. 
vice  he  learned  to  make  long  speeches,  on  which  he 
prided  himself  greativ) — do  I  swear  to  be  to  you  a  kind 
and  faithful  husband — and  true  to  you  and  you  alone." 
Mister  Andrew  sank  slowly  on  his  knees,  for  the 
sake  of  comfort  resting  his  elbows  on  the  window-sill, 
and  took  forcible  possession  of  Annie's  hand  ;  who,  an- 
gry, mortified,  and  bewildered,  hardly  knew  in  what 
set  terms  to  vent  her  displeasure.  Just  at  this  crisis 
the  garden  gate  opened ;  and  little  Phillis,  who  by 
much  suppressed  growling  had  manifested  her  wrath 
at  the  clumsy  courtship  of  the  worthy  host,  sprang 
joyously  out  of  the  window.  Before  any  alteration 
could  take  place  in  the  attitudes  of  the  parlies,  James 
Mc'Cleary  stood  before  them,  boiling  with  jealousy  and 
rage.  "  So,  Miss  Leslie — a  very  pretty  manner  you  've 
treated  me  in  1 — and  it  was  for  that  carcase  (and  he 
pushed  his  foot  against  Andrew  Furlong),  that  ye 
trampled  me  like  the  dust ;  it  was  because  he  has  a 
few  more  bits  o'  dirty  bank  notes,  that  he  scraped  by 
being  a  lick-plate  to  an  unworthy  mimber,  who  sould 
his  country  to  the  Union  and  Lord  Castlereagh  ;  but 
ye'll  sup  sorrow  for  it — ye  will,  Annie  Leslie,  for  y'er 
love  is  wid  me,  bad  as  ye  are  ;  y'er  cheek  has  blushed, 
y'er  eye  has  brightened,  y'er  heart  has  bale  for  me,  as 
it  never  will  for  you,  ye  foolish,  foolish  ould  cratur, 
vrho  thinks  the  finest — the  holiest  feeling  that  God 
gives  us,  can  be  bought  with  gould  1     But  I  am  done  ; 


ANNIE  LESLIE.  243 

as  ye  have  sowed,  Annie,  so  reap.  I  forgive  yc — though 
my  heart — my  heart — is  torn — ahnost,  almost  broken  ; 
for  I  thought  ye  faithful — [  was  wound  up  in  ye — ye 

were  the  very  core  of  my  heart — and  nou- "     The 

young  man  pressed  his  head  against  a  cherry-tree, 
whose  wide-spreading  branches  overshadowed  the  cot- 
tage, unable  to  articulate.  Annie,  much  affected, 
rushed  into  the  garden,  and  took  his  hand  afiection- 
ately  ;  he  turned  upon  her  a  withering  look,  for  the 
jealous  fit  was  waxing  stronger. 

"  What !  do  ye  want  to  make  more  sport  of  me  to 
please  y'er  young  and  handsome  lover  ?  Oh  !  that 
ever  I  should  throw  ye  from  me  I"  He  fiung  back  her 
hand,  and  turned  to  the  gate  ;  but  Andrew,  the  gallant 
Andrew,  thought  it  behoved  hira  to  interfere  when  his 
lady-love  was  treated  in  such  a  disdainful  manner ; 
and  after  having,  with  his  new  green  silk  handker- 
chief, carefully  dusted  the  knees  of  his  scarlet  plush 
breeches,  came  forward. 

"  I  lake  it  that  that's  a  cowardly  thing  for  you  to 
do,  James  McCleary — a  cow ^" 

"  What  do  you  say  ?"  vociferated  James,  whose  pas- 
sion had  now  found  an  object  to  vent  itself  on — "did 
you  dare  call  mc  a  coward  ?"  He  seized  the  old  man 
by  the  throat,  and,  griping  him  as  an  eagle  would  a 
land-tortoise,  held  hira  at  arm's  length  ;  "  Look  ye,  ye 
fat  ould  calf,  if  ye  were  my  equal  in  age  or  strength,  it 
isn't  talking  to  yc  I'd  be  ;  but  I'd  scorn  to  ill  trate  a 
man  of  y'er  years — though  I'd  give  a  thousand  pounds 
this  minute  that  ye  were  young  enough  for  a  fair  fight, 
that  I  might  have  the  glory  to  break  evey  bone  in  y'er 
body — but  there  I" — He  flung  his  weighty  captive  from 
him  with  so  much  violence,  that  mine  host  found  him- 
self extended  amid  a  quantity  of  white-heart  cabbages; 
while  poor  James  sprang  amid  the  elder-trees,  which 
before  had  been  his  place  of  happy  concealment,  and 
rushed  away. 


9A4:  ANNIE  LESLIE. 

Annie  stood  erect  under  the  shado'.v  of  the  cherry- 
tree  against  which  James  had  rested,  and  the  rays  of 
the  clear  full  inoon,  flickering  through  the  foliage, 
showed  that  her  face  was  pale  and  still  as  marble.  In 
vain  did  Phillis  jump  and  lick  her  hand  ;  in  vain  did 
Andrew  vociferate,  in  tender  accents,  froin  the  cab- 
bage-bed Vv'here  he  lay,  trj'ing  first  to  turn  upon  one 
side,  and  then  on  the  other — "Will  no  one  take  pity 
on  me  ?" — "  Will  no  body  help  me  up  ?"  There  stood 
Annie,  wondering  if  the  scene  v,^as  real,  and  if  all  the 
misery  she  endured  could  possibly  have  originated  with 
herself.  She  might  have  remained  there  much  longer, 
had  not  her  father  and  mother  returned  from  the  mea- 
dows, where  they  had  been  distributing  the  usual  dole 
of  spirits  to  their  bare-legged  laborers.  "  Hey,  mercy, 
and  what's  the  matter  noo  I"  exclaimed  the  old  Scotch 
lady,  "  Vv"hy,  Annie,  ye're  clean  daft  for  certain ;  and, 
good  man  Andrew  I  what  has  happened  to  you,  that 
ye're  rubbing  y'er  clothes  with  y'er  bit  napkin,  like  a 
fury  ?  Hey,  mercy  me,  if  my  beautiful  kail  isn't  per- 
fectly ruined,  as  if  a  hail  hogshead  of  yill  had  been 
rovv'd  over  it !  Speak,  ye  young  hizzy !" — and  she 
shook  her  daughter's  arm — "  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Annie,"  paid  her  less  eloquent  father  ;  "  tell  me 
all  about  it,  love,  how  pale  you  arc  I"  He  led  his  child 
affectionately  into  the  little  parlor,  while  Andrew, 
with  doleful  tone  and  gesture,  related  to  the  "  gude 
wife"  the  whole  story,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned. 
The  poor  girl's  feelings  were  at  length  relieved  by  a 
passionate  burst  of  tears  ;  and,  sobbing  on  her  father's 
bosom,  she  told  the  truth,  and  confessed  it  was  her  love 
of  tormenting  that  had  caused  all  the  mischief. 

"  I  do  believe,"  said  the  honest  Englishman,  "  all 
you  women  are  the  same.  Your  mother  was  nearly 
as  bad  in  our  courting  days.  James  is  too  hot  and  too 
hasty — rapid  in  word  and  action  ;  and,  knowing  hun 
as  you  do,  you  were  \vrong  to  trifle  with  him  ;  but 


A-\.\li:  LICSLIU.  '^'lO 

llicro,  l'i\-c,   I  Kii'.st,   1  sii[i;)or-;c,  go  and  fxiiu  hi;n,   and 
make  all  rigiit  again  ;  shall  I,  Aunie  ?" 

"  Father  I"  exclahucd  the  gh-1,  hiuiiig  her  face  ia 
thai  safe  rcstm^j-placo,  a  parent's   bosom. 

"  Send  old  Andrew  off",  and  bring  James  back  to  sup- 
per — eh  ?" 

"  Dear  father  I" 

"  And  you  will  not  bo  pervert;e,  but  make  sweet 
friends  again  ?" 

"  Dear,  dear  father  I'* 

The  good  man  set  off  on  his  cmbass;/,  first  warning 
his  wife  not  to  scold  Annie  ;  adding,  somewhat  stern- 
ly, ho  would  not  permit  her  to  be  sold  to  any  one.  To 
which  speech,  had  he  waited  for  it,  he  would  doubtless 
have  received  a  lengthened  reply. 

As  3Ir.  Leslie  proceeded  down  the  lane  I  have  r-o 
ofieii  mentioned,  he  encountered  a  man  well  known  in 
the  country  by  the  soubriquet  of  "  Alick  the  Travel- 
ler,"  who  witli  his  wearied  donkey,  was  in  search  of  a 
place  of  rest.  Alick  v.'as  a  person  of  great  importance, 
known  to  every  body,  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  in. 
the  province  ot'Lcinster  ;  he  v/as  an  amusing,  cunning, 
good-tempered  fellow,  v.dio  visited  the  gentlemen'.- 
lioiises  as  a  hawker  of  various  fish,  particularly  oysters, 
which  he  procured  from  the  far-famed  Wexford  beds  ; 
and,  after  disposing  of  his  cargo,  he  was  accustomed 
to  re-load  his  panniers  from  our  cockle-strand  of  Ban- 
now,  which  is  cfiually  celebrated  for  that  delicate  little 
fish.  Neither  shoes  nor  stockings  did  Alick  wear;  no, 
he  carried  them  in  his  hand,  and  never  put  them  on, 
until  he  got  within  sigiit  of  the  genteel  houses  ; — "he'd 
be  long  sorry  to  give  dacent  shoes  or  stockings  such 
u<agc  ;  sure  his  feet  were  well  u?ed  to  the  stones  1 ' 
His  figure  was  tall  and  erect  ;  and  the  long  stick  of 
:;ca-weed,  with  which  he  urged  poor  Dapple's  speed, 
was  thrr)\vn  over  his  shoulder  with  the  careless  air  that, 
in  a  well-dressed  man  would  be  called  elegant.  A 
wcathcr-bca'icn  ch^pcaii   de  paille  shaded  his  rough 


246  AN^'lE  LESLIE. 

but  agreeable  features  ;  and  stuck  on  one  side  of  it,  in 
the  twine  which  t^crved  as  a  hat-band,  were  a  'cutty 
pipe,' and  a  few  sprigs  of  beautifully  tinted  sea-weed 
and  delisk,  forming  an  appropriate  but  singular  garn- 
iture. He  was  whistling  loudly  on  his  way,  and  cheer- 
ing his  weary  companion  occasionally  by  kind  words 
of  encouragement. 

"  God  save  yc,  this  fine  evening,  Mr.  Leslie  ;  I  was 
just  thinking  of  you,  and  all  y'er  good  family,  which  I 
hope  is  hearty,  as  well  as  the  woman  that  owns  ye. 
And  I  v.-as  just  sa3'ing  to  myself  that  may-be  ye'd  let 
me  and  the  baste  stay  in  the  corner  to-night, — for  I've 
a  pov/er  of  beautiful  fish,  and  I  want  to  be  early  among 
the  gentry.  But  if  the  mistress  likes  a  taste  of  news, 
or  a  rattling  hake — " 

"  Alick,"  said  Leslie,  who  knew  by  experience  the 
difficulty  of  stopping  his  tongue  *  v.'hen  once  it  was  set 
a  going,' — "  go  to  the  house  ;  and  there's  hearty  wel- 
come—  a  good  supper  and  clean  straw  for  ye  both. 
But  tell  me,  have  you  seen  James  McClcary  this  eve- 
ning ?', 

"  Och  I  is  it  James  ye'rc  after  ?  There's  a  beautiful 
lobster  I — let  Kenny,  Paddy  Kenny  (may  be  yc  don't 
know  Paddy  the  fishmonger,  wid  the  blue  door  at  the 
corner  of  the  ould  market  in  Wexford),  let  Paddy 
Kenny  bate  that  I " 

"  But  James  McCIeary " 

"  True  for  ye,  he'll  be  glad  to  see  ye.  Now,  Mister 
Leslie,  tell  us  the  truth,  did  yccver  see  sich  crabs  as 
thim  in  England  ?  Where  'ud  they  get  them  and  they 
so  far  from  the  sea  ?" 

"  I  want " 

"  1  humbly  ax  y'er  pardon — I  saw  him  jist  now  cut- 
ting off  in  that  Vv-ay,  as  straight  as  a  conger  eel — I  had 
one  t'other  day.  Mister  Leslie  (it's  as  true  as  that  ye're 
standing  there),  it  weighed " 

"  What  ? — did  he  go  across  tlie  fields  in  that  dircc. 
lion  ?" 


ANNIE  LESLIE. 
If?  it  l:e  ? — Irotii,  r,o,  I  skinned  lii; 


n  a':  natc- 


•'Och!  no;  the  conger." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  in  what  direction  you  saw  James 
Mc'Cleary  go  ? — the  misfortune  of  all  Irishmen  is,  that 
they  answer  one  question  by  asking  another." 

"  I  don't  like  ye  to  be  taking  the  country  down,  afier 
that  fashion,  Mister  Leslie  ;  it's  bad  manners,  and  I 
can't  see  any  misfortune  about  it ;  and  if  I  did,  there's 
no  good  in  life  of  making  a  cry  about  it; — but  there's 
an  ilcgant  cod  I — there's  a  whopper  I — there's  been 
no  rest  or  peace  wid  that  lump  of  a  fellovr  all  the  eve- 
ning— whacking  his  tail  in  such  a  way  in  the  face  of 
ever}"-  fish  in  the  basket ;  I'll  let  the  misthress  have 
him  a  bargain  if  she  likes,  list  to  get  rid  of  him — the 
Tory  !" 

Leslie  at  last  found  tliat  his  questions  v\'ere  useless  ; 
so  he  motioned  '  Alick  the  Traveller'  to  his  dwelling, 
and  proceeded  on  his  way  to  James's  coltage  ; — while 
Alick,  gazing  after  him,  half  muttered,  '  there's  no 
standing  thim  Englishmen  ;  the  best  of  them  are  so 
dead  like — not  a  word  have  they  in  their  head  ;  not 
the  least  taste  in  life  for  conversation.  Catch  James  ! 
— I  hope  it  didn't  turn  out  bad,  though,"  he  continued, 
in  a  still  lower  tone  ;  "  what  I  said  a  while  agone  was 
all  out  o'  innocence,  for  a  bit  o'  fun  wid  the  ould  one." 
He  turned,  and  for  a  moment  watched  the  path  taken 
by  Leslie,  then  proceeded  on  his  way,  muttering,  "  'tis 
very  quare  though." 

At  the  door  of  James  McCleary's  cottage,  Leslie 
encountered  the  young  man's  mother.  "  I  was  jist 
going  to  your  place  to  ask  what's  come  over  my  boy," 
said  she  ;  "  I  can't  make  him  out ;  he  came  in,  in  such 
a  fluster  about  tin  minutes  agone,  and  kicked  up  sich 
a  bobbery  in  no  time ;  fioostered  over  his  clothes  in 
the  press,  cursed  all  the  women  in  the  world,  bid  God 
bless  me,  and  set  ofl',  full  speed,  like  a  wild  deer,  across 
the  country." 


248  ANNIE  LESLIE. 

"  Inucr.il  1"  exfJaimcd  Lcslir. 

"  I  know,  i\Ir.  Leslie,  that  my  boy  Ijas  been  keeping 
company  wid  your  g^irl  ;  and  I  have  noibing  to  say 
agin  her  ;  she  has  a  dale  o'  the  lady  abont  her,  yet  is 
humble  and  modest  as  any  laiub  :  but  I  think  may-be 
they've  had  a  bit  of  a  ruction  about  some  footy  thiufj 
or  o.her  ;  but  men  can't  bear  to  be  contradicted,  though 
I  own  it's  good  for  them,  and  more  especially  James, 
who  has  a  dale  of  his  father  in  him,  •who  I  had  to  man. 
age  (God  rest  his  sowl  1)  like  any  babby.  However, 
James  has  too  much  sense  to  go  far,  I'm  thinking — 
only  to  aunt's  husband's  daughter,  by  the  Blackwater, 
fancying,  may  be,  to  bring  Annie  round  ;  and  to  I  was 
going  to  see  her,  to  kncv  the  rights  of  it." 

The  kind-hearted  farmer  told  her  nearly  all  lie 
knew,  with  fatherl}'  feeling  glossing  over  Annie's  pet- 
tishness  as  much  as  he  possibly  could.  Mrs.  Mc'- 
Cleary  remained  firm  in  her  opinion  that  he  had  onl}' 
gone  down  to  the  Blackwater,  and  would  return  the 
next  day.  Bat  Leslie's  mind  foreboded  evil.  When 
he  arrived  at  home,  he  found  '  Alick  the  Traveller' 
eomfortably  seated  in  the  large  chimney  corner;  a 
cheerful  turf  fire  casting  its  light  sometimes  in  broad 
masses,  sometimes  in  brilliant  tlashes,  over  the  room  ; 
the  neat  white  cloth  vras  laid  for  supper  ;  and  the  busy 
dame  was  seated  opposite  the  itinerant  man  of  fish, 
laughing  long  and  loudly  at  his  quaint  jokes  and  merry 
stories.  Annie  was  looking  vacantly  from  the  door 
that  was  shut,  to  the  v.'indow  through  which  slie  could 
not  see  ;  and  Phillis  was  stretched  along  the  comfort- 
able hearth,  rousing  himself  occasionally  to  reprimand 
the  rudeness  of  a  small  white  kitten,  Annie's  particu- 
lar pet,  who  obstinately  persisted  in  playing  with  the 
long  silky  hairs  of  the  spaniel's  bushy  tail.  Wh.en 
Leslie  entered,  the  poor  girl's  heart  beat  violently ; 
and  the  color  rose  and  failed  almost  at  the  E;ame  mo- 
ment. She  busied  her.self  about  liouseholu  matterf?  to 
escape  ob.-ervation  ;  broke  the  salt-celler  in  endeavor- 


ANNIE  LESLIE.  249 

iijg  to  force  it  into  the  cruet-stand,  aad  verified  the  oU 
proverb,  •'  ppill  the  salt  and  get  a  scolding,"  for  the 
mother  did  scold,  in  no  measured  terms,  at  the  destruc- 
tion of  what  the  careless  hizzy  had  broken. — '•  Did  ye 
na  ken  that  it  had  been  used  for  twenty  years  and 
mair  ?" —  she  reiterated  ;  "  and  did  Christian  woman 
ever  see  sic  folly,  to  force  a  broad  salt,  of  thi;;k  glass, 
into  a  place  that  can  na  mair  than  baud  a  wee  bottle  I 
The  girl's  daft,  and  that's  the  end  on't."  Notvvath. 
standing  the  jests  of  Alick,  the  evening  passed  heavily; 
Annie  complained  of  illness,  and  went  soon  to  bed  ; 
and  as  her  father  kissed  her,  at  the  door  of  her  little 
chamber,  he  felt  that  her  cheek  was  moist  and  cold, 
Mrs.  Leslie  sooii  followed  ;  and  the  farmer  replenislied 
his  long  pipe  as  Alick  added  fresh  tobacco  to  hir^ 
stumpy  one.  "  I'm  sorry  to  see  Miss  Annie  so  ill," 
said  the  honest  hav.ker  in  a  kindly  tone ;  "  but  this 
time  all  the  girls  get  tired  at  the  hay.making  ;  well,  it 
bates  all,  to  tliiuk  liov/  you  farmers  can  be  continied 
jist  wid  looking  on  the  sky,  and  walching  the  crops, 
over  and  over  again  in  the  same  place.  I  might  as 
well  lie  down  and  die  an  oa'st,  as  not  keep  going  from 
place  to  place.  One  sees  a  dale  more  o'  life,  and  one 
sees  more  o'  the  tricks  o'  the  times.  Och,  but  the 
world's  a  fine  world,  only  for  the  people  that's  in  it  I 
— it's  them  spiles  it. — I  had  something  to  say  to  you, 
^Mister  Lci^Iie,  very  particklar,  that  I  ca-ne  to  knowl- 
edge  of  quite  iniiocent.  Ye  mind  that  Mister  MuUa- 
ger,  Maley,  as  he  calls  himself  for  the  sake  of  the  En- 
glish, has  been  playing  the  puck  wid  Lord  Cliiford's 
tinnants,  as  might  be  expected  ;  for  his  mother  was  a 
chimbley  sweeper,  tliat  had  the  luck  to  marry  a  dacent 
boy  enough,  only  a  little  turned  three-score  ;  and  thin 
this  beautiful  scoundrel  came  into  the  w^orld,  and,  be- 
twixt the  two,  they  left  him  the  pov.'cr  and  all  o'  hard 
yellow  guineas.  Now,  ho  being  desperate  'ciite,  got 
into  my  lord's  cnijiloy,  being  only  a  slip  of  a  boy  at  the 
time.     Well,  lord:;-  to  mv  tiiinking,   ''barring  the  ould 


250  ANNIE  LESLIE. 

ancient  oucs)  are  Oiily  foolisli  sort  of  min,  any  how — 
I  could  go  bail  that  my  Lord  Clifford  hadn't  a  full 
knowledge-box  any  way  ;  and  so,  through  one  sly  turn 
or  other,  this  fellow  bothered  him  so,  and  threw  dust 
in  his  e3"es,  and  wheedled  him,  that,  ye  know,  at  last 
he  comes  the  gintleman  over  us  ;  and  tould  me,  t'other 
day,  that  as  fine  a  jackydory  as  iver  ye  set  y'er  two 
good-looking  eyes  on  was  nothing  but  a  fluke — the  ig- 
norant baste  !  Fine  food  for  sharks  he'd  be  ;  only  the 
cralur  that  'ud  ate  him  must  be  hungry  enough — the 
thief  o'  the  world  !" 

"  V/hat  has  all  this  to  do  with  me,  Alick?"  inquired 
the  Englishman  steadily,  while  the  traveller,  incensed 
at  the  rem.embrance  of  the  insult  offered  to  his  fish, 
scattered  the  burning  ashes  out  of  his  cutty  pipe,  to 
the  no  small  consternation  of  the  crickets — merry 
things  ! — who  had  come  on  the  hearth-stone  to  regale 
on  cold  potatoes.  *•  I  know,"  he  continued,  "  that  the 
agent,  or  whatever  he  calls  himself,  is  no  friend  of 
mine.  When  my  landlord  came  to  the  country,  he 
did  me  the  honor  to  ask  my  opinion ;  I  showed  him 
the  improvements,  that  I,  as  an  English  farmer, 
thought  might  be  profitable  to  the  estate ;  he  desired 
me  to  give  in  an  estimate  of  the  expense  ;  1  did  so  ; 
but  the  honest  agent,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  mid- 
dle-man, had  given  one  in  before  ;  his  lordship  found 
that,  by  my  arrangements,  the  expense  was  lessened 
one  half;  but  ?*Ialey  persuaded  my  lord  that  his  plans 
were  best,  and  so " 

"  Ay,"  interrupted  Alick,  "couldn't  ye  have  been 
content  to  mind  y'er  farm,  and  not  be  putting  English 
plans  of  improvement  into  an  Irish  head,  where  it's  so 
hard  to  make  them  fit.  When  the  devil  was  civil, 
and,  like  a  jintleman,  held  out  his  paw  to  ye,  why 
didn't  ye  make  y'er  bow,  and  take  it? — sure,  that  had 
been  only  manners,  let  alone  sense — don't  look  so 
bleared  I  What,  ye  don't  understand  me  I"  Alick 
advanced  his  body  slowly  forward,  rested  his  elbows  on 


ANNIE  LESLIE.  251 

the  small  lable,  pressed  his  face  aiinost  close  to  Les- 
lie's, whose  turn  it  was  now  lo  la)^  down  his  pipe,  and 
slowly  said,  in  a  firm,  audible  whisper, — "  Whin  Tim 
i\lullager,  the  curse  o'  the  poor — the  thing  in  man's 
shape,  but  widout  a  heart — met  me  one  evening,  by 
chance  as  you  thought,  at  the  far  corner  of  the  very 
field  ye  cut  to-day,  what  tempted  3'e  (for  ye  mind  the 
lime — my  lord  thought  a  dale  about  y'er  Englisli  no- 
tions thin),  whin  he  axed  ye,  as  sweet  as  new  milk,  to 
join  him  in  that  very  estimate  unknownst  to  my  lord, 
and  said,  ye  mind,  that  it  might  be  made  convenient 
to  the  both  o'  ye,  and  a  dale  more  to  the  same  purpose  ; 
and,  instead  of  seeming  to  come  in,  my  jewel!  you 
talked  something  about  'legrity  and  honor,  which  was 
as  hard  for  him  to  make  out  as  priest's  Latin,  and 
walked  off  as  stately  as  the  tower  of  Hook." 

"  But  I  never  mentioned  a  syllable  of  his  falsehood 
to  do  him  injury,"  exclaim.ed  the  astonished  farmer  ; 
"  I  never  breathed  it,  even  to  Lord  CiiiTord." 

"  And  more  fool  you — I  ax  y'er  pardon,  but  more 
fool  you — that  was  y'er  time  ;  and  it  was  the  time  for 
more  than  that — it  was  the  time  for  ye  to  get  a  new 
lase  upon  the  ould  terms,  and  not  to  be  trusting  to 
lords'  promises,  v.hich  are  as  easy  broke  as  any  body 
else's." 

•'  You  arc  a  strange  fellov.',  Alick  ;  how  did  you 
knov/  any  thing  about  vcij  lease  ?  At  all  events,  though 
it  is  expired,  I  am  safe  enough,  for  I  am  sure  that  even 
Maley  could  not  v/ish  a  better  tenant," 

"  A  better  tinant  I"  responded  Alick,  fairly  laugh- 
ing. "  A  better  tinant  I — fait,  that's  not  bad  I  What 
does  he  care  v/hether  ye  're  a  good  or  bad  tinant  to  my 
turd  ?  Does  n't  he  want — m.an  alive  1 — to  have  ye  body 
and  sowl ! — the  rig'lar  rint,  to  be  sure,  for  the  master  ; 
all  fair — the  little  dasshure  for  himself;  the  saaling 
money,  if  a  lase  is  to  the  fore  ;  and  a  five-pound  note, 
not  amiss  as  a  civility  to  his  bit  of  a  v/ife  ;  thin  the 
dufy-hens,   duty-turkies,  duty-geese,  duty-pigs  ; — 'Jie 


252  ANNIE  LESLIE. 

spinning  and  the  knitting  : — sure,  if  my  lord  or  my 
lady  isn't  to  the  fore,  they'll  sa're  them  the  trouble  of 
looking  after  sich  things ;  and  they,  ye  know,  get  the 
cash — that  is,  as  much  as  the  agent  chooses  to  say  is 
their  due — and  spend  it  in  foreign  parts,  widout  think- 
ing o'  the  tears  and  the  blood  it  costs  at  home. — Och, 
Mister  Leslie !  it's  no  v.'onder  if  we'd  have  the  black 
heart  to  sich  as  them  !" 

Leslie,  for  the  first  tim.e  of  his  life,  felt  a  doubt  as 
to  the  nature  of  the  situation  in  which  he  was  placed  ; 
he  looked  around  upon  the  fair  white  walls,  so  dear,  so 
very  dear,  to  the  purest  feelings  of  his  heart ;  ev- 
ery object  had  a  claim  on  his  affections,  even  the 
long  v/ooden  peg,  upon  v.hich  his  great  coat  hung  be- 
hind the  door,  v/as  as  valuable  to  him  as  if  it  were  of 
gold. 

"I  can  hardly  understand  this,"  said  he  at  last ; 
*'3'ou  knov\r  I  have  ah.vays  been  on  good  terms  with 
my  neighbors,  3'et  I  have  acquired  little  knovvledge  in 
these  matters ;  I  have  always  paid  my  rent  to  the  mo. 
ment ;  a7id,  a"^  my  twenty-one  years'  lease  only  ex- 
pired two  or  three  days  ago,  I  have  had  little  opportu- 
nity of  judging  hovv'  Irish  agents  behave  on  such  occa- 
sions." 

"  Don't  be  running  down  the  country,  Mr.  Leslie," 
f;aid  Alick,  quickly,  "  there's  a  dale  in  the  differ  be- 
twixt the  raale  gintry  and  such  viusheroons  a,s  he  ; 
but  keep  a  look  out,  for  he's  after  no  good.  The  day 
afore  yes'erday,  whin  he  behaved  no  unhandsome  to 
myjackydorey — ('twould  ha'  done  y'er  heart  good  to 
look  at  that  beautiful  fish),  he  was  v/alking  with  an- 
other spillogue  of  a  Mlosv  (the  ganger,  by  the  same 
token) ;  and  so,  as  they  seemed  as  thick  as  two  rogues, 
vrhispering  and  nodding,  and  laying  down  the  law,  I 
thought  if  I  let  the  baste  go  on  lie'd  keep  safe  to  the 
road  ;  and  so,  as  they  walked  up  one  side  of  the  hedge 
that  leads  to  the  hill,  I  jist  slreeled  up  the  other,  to 
see,  for  the  honor  of  ould  Ireland,  if  I  could  fish  out 


ANNIE  LESLIE.  253 

liic  rogue's  iiieaiiiiig.  Well,  to  be  sure,  they  pcti  led 
as  how  the  riiit  should  be  doubled  on  llie  land  that  fell, 
more  especially  yours,  and  fines  raised,  and  the  gan- 
ger's to  act  as  '  turney :'  but  he  said  that  he  knew 
you'd  pay  any  thing  rather  than  lave  the  house  ye  set- 
tled up  y'crself ;  and  then  t'other  said  that  ('twas  the 
word  he  spoke),  '  the  ould  Scotch  cat'  wouldn't  let  ye 
spind  the  money  ;  and  then  t'other  held  to  it,  and  said 
ye  must  go,  for  yc  set  a  bad  example  of  indipindence 
to  the  neighbors,  and  a  dale  more  ;  but  the  upshot  was 
that  they  nmst  get  rid  o'  yc.  And  now,  God  be  wid 
ye,  and  do  y'er  best ;  and  take  care  of  that  girl  o' 
yours,  and  don't  let  the  mistress  bother  her  about  that 
old  man,  any  more  ;  she's  full  o'  little  tricks — may 
sense,  not  sorroio,  sober  thim,  say  I  ;  good  night,  and 
thank  ye  kindly ;  Mr.  Leslie  ;  I'm  the  boy  '11  look  to 
ye.  and  don't  think  bad  o'  my  saying  that  to  the  likes 
o'  you  ;  for  ye  remimber  how  the  swallow  brought  word 
to  the  eagle  where  the  fowler  stood.  God's  blessing 
be  about  ye  all,  Amin  !"  And  the  keen,  wandering, 
good-natured  fellow  left  the  house,  to  share,  according 
to  custom,  dapple's  couch  of  clean  straw,  in  the  neigh- 
boring shed. 

The  next  morning,  Leslie's  family  received  a  visit 
from  the  agent,  to  the  surprise  of  Annie  and  her  moth- 
er, who  welcomed  him  with  much  civility,  while 
the  farmer's  naturally  independent  feelings  struggled 
stoutly  with  his  interest.  If  there  be  one  thing  more 
than  another  that  I  love  in  the  character  of  English 
yeomen,  it  is  their  sturdy  bearing  towards  their  superi- 
ors ;  they  feel  that  they  arc  free-born  men,  and  they 
act  zs  such  ;  but  an  Irish  farmer  must  play  the  s}>au- 
iel  to  his  landlord,  and  to  all  that  belong  to  his  house- 
hold, or  bear  his  name  ;  the  very  sound  of  justice  is  to 
him  unknown  ;  he  hardly  dare  believe  himself  a  man, 
much  less  fancy  that  from  his  Maker's  hand  he  came 
forth  a  being  gifted  with  quick  and  high  intellect — 
with  a  heart  to  feel  and  a  head  to  think,  as  well,  if  not 
21* 


254  AI\'.ME  LESLIE. 

bcUcr,  than  tiic  lord  of  tlie  soil.  But  mind,  though  it 
may  he  suppresyed,  cannot  be  destroyed  ;  with  the 
Irish  peasant,  cunning  frequently  takes  the  place  of 
boldness,  and  lie  becomes  dangerous  to  his  oppressors. 
Landlords  may  thank  their  own  wretched  policy  for 
the  crimes  of  their  tenantry,  when  they  cease  to  reside 
amongst,  or  even  visit  them,  but  leave  them  to  the 
artful  management  of  ignorant  and  debased  middle- 
jnen,  who  uniformly  have  but  two  principles  of  action, 
to  blindfold  their  employer,  and  gain  wealth  at  the  ex- 
pen?e  of  proprietor  and  tenant. 

"  Y'er  house  is  always  nate  and  clane,  Mrs.  Leslie," 
said  Maley,  "  and  y'er  farm  does  3'e  credit,  master  ; 
I'm  sorry  it's  out  of  lase,  but  my  duty  to  my  employer 
obliges  me  to  tell  you  that  a  new  lase,  if  granted,  must 
be  on  more  advantageous  terms  to  his  lordship.  Y'er 
present  payments,  arable  and  meadov/  land  together, 
average  something  about  two  pounds  five  or  sLx  per 
acre." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Leslie,  "  always  paid  to  the  hour." 

"  And  if  it  please  ye,  sir,"  said  the  good  dame, 
"  when  his  lordship  was  down  here  he  made  us  a  faith- 
ful promise,  on  the  honor  of  a  gentleman,  that  he'd 
renew  the  lease  on  tlie  same  terms,  in  consideration  of 
the  money  and  pains  my  husband  bestowed  on  the 
land." 

The  agent  turned  his  little  gray  eye  sharply  on  the 
honest  creature,  and  gave  a  grunt,  that  was  less  a  laugh 
than  a  note  of  preparation  for  one,  observing,  "  Ma}'- 
be  he's  lost  his  memory  ;  for  there,  Mr.  Leslie,  is  the 
proposal  he  ordered  me  to  make  (he  threw  a  sheet  of 
folded  foolscap  on  the  table,)  so  you  may  take  it  or  lave 
it." 

"  lie  was  preparing  to  quit  the  cottage,  wlien  his 
eye  glanced  on  a  basket  of  turkey  eggs,  that  Annie 
had  arranged  to  set  under  a  favorite  hen — "  What 
line  eggs  !"  he  exclaimed ;  "  I'll  take  two  or  three  to 
show  my  wife."     And,  one  after  another,  he  deposited 


A.\ME  LESLIK.  liOO 

ail  Llie  poor  girl's  embryo  cljickcus  in   his  capacious 
pockets. 

Leslie,  really  aroused  by  the  barefaced  inipudeiice 
rif  the  act,  was  starting  forward  to  prevent  it,  when 
his  wife  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  ;  not  that  she  did 
not  sorrow  after  the  spoil,  but  she  had  a  point  to  gain. 

"May-be,  sir,  ye'd  jist  tell  me  the  laird's  present 
address  ;  Annie,  put  it  down  on  that  bit  paper." 

"  Tell  his  address  I — any  thiiig  ye  have  to  say  must 
be  to  mc,  good  woman.  And  so  ye  write  pretty  one  ; 
I  wonder  what  is  the  use  of  teaching  such  girls  as  you 
to  write:  but  ye're  up  to  love-!ettcr.s  before  this  ;  ay, 
ay,  ye'll  make  the  best  of  y'er  black  eyes,  my  dear  1" 
VVith  this  insulting  speech,  the  low  man  in  power  left 
the  cottage. 

Bitter  was  tlie  anguish  felt  by  that  little  p.arty. 
The  father  sat,  his  hands  supporting  his  head,  his  eyes 
tixcd  on  the  exorbitant  demand  the  agent  had  left  up. 
on  his  table;  large  tears  passed  slovvly  down  Annie's 
cheek  ;  and,  if  the  poor  mother  suffered  less  than  the 
others,  it  was  because  she-talked  more. 

"  Dinna  be  cast  doon,  Robert,"  said  she,  at  last,  to 
Iter  husband  ;  *'ye  hac  nae  reason,  even  if  he  ask  sac 
much  money  as  yc  say,  as  a  premium,  forbyc  other 
matters  ;  why,  there  are  as  gude  farms  elsewhere,  and 
landlords  that  look  after  their  tenants  themselves. 
<  )h,  that  wicked,  wicked  wretch  I — to  see  him  pocket 
the  eggs — and  his  speech  to  my  poor  Annie  !" 

"  My  darling  girl !"  exclaimed  the  father,  pressing 
his  daughter  to  his  bosom,  where  he  held  her  long  and 
anxiousl}'. 

It  was  almost  impossible  for  Leslie  to  accede  to  the 
terms  demanded  ;  four  pounds  an  acre  for  the  farm,  a 
heavy  fine,  and  both  dutj'-work,  and  duty  provisions, 
required  in  abundance. 

"  Dinna  think  o't,  Robert,"  repeated  the  dame, 
"  we'll  go  elsewhere,  and  find  better  treatment.  If  ye 
keep  it  at  that  rate,  we  shall  all  starve."     But  the 


256  A.NNIE  LESLIE. 

I'aruier's  heart  yearned  to  every  blade  of  grass  that 
had  grown  beneath  his  eye ;  he  hoped  to  frustrate  the 
intended  evil,  and  yet  keep  the  land.  His  crops  had 
been  prosperous,  his  cattle  healthy ;  then,  his  neigh, 
bors,  when,  through  Alick's  agency,  they  found  how 
matters  stood,  had,  with  the  genuine  Irish  feeling  that 
shines  more  brightly  in  adversity  than  in  prosperity, 
come  forward,  affectionately  tendering  their  services. 

"  Sure,  the  cutting  the  hay  need  niver  cost  ye  a 
brass  fardin,''  said  the  kind-hearted  mower  ;  "  I'm  half 
my  time  idle,  and  I  may  jist  as  well  be  doing  something 
for  you  as  nothing  for  myself;  so  don't  trouble  about 
it,  sir,  dear  ;  we  like  to  have  ye  amongst  us." 

Then  came  'Nelly  the  Picker,'  as  the  spokes-woman 
of  all  her  sisterhood,  "  Do  n't  think  of  laving  us,  Mrs. 
Leslie,  ma'am,  sure  every  one  of  us  'ill  come  as  usual, 
but  widout  fee  or  reward,  excipt  the  heart  love,  and  do 
twice  as  much  for  that  as  for  the  dirty  money  ;  and 
I  '11  go  bail  the  pratees  will  be  as  well  picked,  and  the 
corn  as  well  reaped,  bound,  and  stacked,  as  iver.  Sure, 
though  we  did  n't  much  like  ye  at  first,  hasn't  Miss  An- 
nie  grown  among  us,  borne  as  she  is  on  the  sod,  and  a 
credit  to  it  too,  God  be  praised." 

These  were  all  very  gratifying  instances  of  pure  and 
simple  affection  ;  indeed,  even  Arthur  Furlong  forgot 
his  somerset  in  the  cabbage-bed,  and  posted  down  to 
the  farm  with  his  stocking  full  of  gold  and  silver  coins, 
of  ancient  and  modern  date,  which  were  all  at  Leslie's 
service,  to  pay  the  premium  required  by  the  agent  for 
the  renewal  of  the  lease.  This  last  favor,  however, 
the  worthy  farmer  would  not  even  hear  of;  he  there- 
fore  sold  a  great  part  of  his  stock,  and  to  the  annoy, 
ance  of  the  agent,  obtained  the  lease.  From  this  cir- 
cumstance, he  might  be  said  to  triumph  over  the 
machinations  of  his  enemy  ;  but  matters  soon  changed 
sadly  ;  the  family  was  as  industrious  as  ever  ;  the  same 
steady  perseverance  on  the  farmer's  part ;  the  same 
bustle  and  unwearying  activity  on  that  of  the  good 


ANNIE  LESLIE.  25  i 

(lanie ;  and,  though  poor  Annie's  clicek  was  more 
pale,  and  hor  eyes  less  bright,  yet  did  she  unceasingly 
labor  in  and  out  of  their  sn;a!l  dwelling.  Notwith- 
standing all  these  exertions,  the  next  season  was  a  bad 
one  ;  their  sheep  fell  olF  in  the  rot,  their  pigs  had  the 
measles,  their  chickens  the  pip,  and  two  of  their  cows 
died  in  calf.  Never  did  circumstances  in  the  little 
Fpace  of  six  months  undergo  so  great  a  change.  Les- 
lie's silence  amounted  almost  to  sullenuess ;  his  wife 
talked  much  of  their  ill  fortune  ;  Annie  said  nothing  ; 
but  her  step  had  lost  its  elasticity,  her  figure  its  grace, 
and  her  voice  seldom  trolled  the  joyous,  or  even  the 
mournful  songs  of  her  native  land  in  the  eldcr-bower, 
that,  before  the  departure  of  James  Me'Cleary,  had 
rung  again  and  again  v.-ith  merry  laughter  and  music. 
James  never  returned  after  that  unfortunate  evening  ; 
and  his  mother  had  only  twice  heard  from  him  since 
liis  absence  ;  his  letters  were  brief. — "  He  had  gone," 
he  said,  "  to  sea,  to  enable  him  to  learn  something,  and 
to  forget  much."  His  mother  and  younger  brother 
managed  the  farm  with  much  skill  and  attention  dur- 
ing his  absence.  No  token,  no  word  of  her  whom 
he  had  doatingly  loved,  appeared  in  his  letters. — 
It  v.'as  evident  that  he  tried  to  think  of  her  as  a 
heartless,  jilting  woman,  unworthy  to  possess  the  af- 
fections of  a  .sensible  man;  but  there  must  have  been 
times  when  the  remembrance  of  her  full  beauty,  of  her 
frank  and  generous  temper,  of  her  many  acts  of  char- 
ity (and  in  those  she  was  never  capricious),  came  up- 
on him  ;  then  the  last  scene  at  the  cottage  was  forgot- 
ten, and  he  remembered  alone  her  sweet  voice,  and 
sweeter  look,  ia  the  hay  meadow,  when  he  cut  off  the 
curling  braid  of  hair  v/hich  doubtless  rested  on  his  bo- 
som in  all  his  wanderings.  And  then  he  refreshed  his 
memory  by  gazing  on  it,  in  the  clear  moonlight,  dur- 
ing the  night  watches,  v/hen  only  the  eye  of  heaven 
was  upon  him.  Let  not  any  one  iinagine  that  such 
iny.'  i-^  loo  refined  to  throb  in  a  peasant'.s  bosom  ;  triist 


258  ANNIE  LESLIE. 

me,  it  is  not.  The  being  wlio  lives  amid  the  beauties 
of  nature,  although  he  may  not  expreDs,  must  feel,  tlie 
elevating  yet  gentle  influence  of  herb,  and  flovrer,  and 
tree.  Many  a  time  have  I  heard  the  ploughman  sus- 
pend his  whistle  to  listen  to  that  of  the  melodious 
blackbird  ;  and  well  du  I  remcnjber  the  beautiful  ex- 
pression of  one  of  my  humblest  neighbors,  when,  rest- 
ing on  his  hay-fork,  he  had  silently  watched  the  sun 
as  it  set  over  a  country  glowing  in  its  red  and  golden 
light.  "  It  is  very  grand,  yet  h:ird  to  look  upon,"  said 
he,  "  one  can  almost  think  it  God's  holy  throne." 

The  last  letter  that  reached  our  sailor-friend  con- 
tained, amongst  others  of  similar  import,  the  following 
passage — "  Ye  '11  be  sorry  to  hear,  James,  (though  it 's 
nothing  to  ye  now),  that  times  are  turned  bad  with  the 
Leslies  ;  there  has  been  a  dale  of  undcr-hand  work  by 
my  lord's  agent ;  and  the  girl 's  got  a  cold  dismal  look. 
My  heart  aches  for  the  poor  thing ;  for  her  mother  is 
ret  upon  her  marrying  Andrew  Furlong,  which  she 
has  no  mind  in  life  to." 

Gale-day  (as  the  rent-day  is  called  in  Ireland)  had 
come  and  gone,  and  much  sorrow  was  in  the  cottage 
of  Robert  Leslie.  In  the  gay  twilight  he  sat  in  a  dark- 
ened corner  of  his  little  parlor,  the  very  atmosphere  of 
which  appeared  clouded  ;  the  dame  stood  at  the  open 
casement,  against  which  Annie  reclined  more  like  a 
stiffened  corpse  than  a  breathing  woman.  Andrew 
Furlong  was  seated  also  at  a  table,  looking  earnestly 
on  the  passing  scene. 

"  Haven't  ye  seen."  said  the  mother,  "  haven't  ye 
seen,  Annie,  the  misery  that's  come  upon  us,  entirely 
by  my  advice  being  not  minded.  And  are  ye  goin' 
tamely  to  see  us  turned  out  o'  house  and  hame,  when 
we  have  na  the  means  of  getting  anither  ?  I,  Annie," 
she  continued,  "  am  a'maist  past  my  labor  ;  ah,  my 
bonny  bairn,  it  was  for  you  we  worked — for  you  we 
toiled  ;  y'er  faither  an'  me  had  but  the  one  heart  in 
that ;  and  if  the  Lord  Almighty  has  pleased  to  take  it 


ANME  LESLIC.  259 

iVac  U.S,  it's  jia  reason  why  you  sliould  i'orgci  how  ye 
were  still  foremost  in  y'cr  parents'  love." 

Annie  answered  nothing. 

"  Speak  to  her,  Robert,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  she 
disna  mind  mc  noo." 

Annie  raised  her  ej'cs  reproachfully  to  her  mother's 
face.  The  farmer  came  forward, — he  kissed  the  mar- 
ble brow  of  his  pale  child,  and  she  rested  her  head  ou 
his  siioulder.  As  he  turned  towards  her  she  whis- 
pered, "  Is  all  indeed  as  bad  as  mother  says  ?" 

"  Even  so,"  was  his  reply,  "  unless  something  be 
done,  to-morrow  we  shall  Jiave  no  home.  Annie,  it  is 
to  shield  you  I  think  of  this  ;  my  delicate,  fading  flow. 
cr,  how  could  ijou  labor  as  a  hired  servant  ?  And — 
God  in  his  mercy  look  upon  us  ! — I  should  not  be  able 
to  find  a  roof  to  shelter  my  only  child." 

"  My  bairn,"  again  commenced  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  sure 
the  mother  that  gave  ye  birth  can  wish  for  nacthing 
sac  much  as  y'er  v;eel-doing.  And  sure  sic  a  man  as 
Maistcr  Furlong  could  no  fail  to  make  ye  happy.  All 
the  goud  ye'r  faither  wants  he  will  gi'e  us  noo,  trust- 
ing to  his  bare  v/ord  ;  to-morrow,  and  it  will  be  too 
late  ; — all  thing  saukl — the  sneers  of  that  bitter  man — 
(for  poverty  is  aye  scorned)  of  a  cauld  world — and, 
may-be,  y'er  faither  in  a  lanely  prison ;  eh,  child — what 
could  ye  do  for  him  then  ?" 

"  Mother  I"  exclaimed  the  girl,  starting  with  con- 
vulsive motion  from  her  father's  shoulder  ;  "  say  no 
more  ;  here — a  promise  is  all  he  wants  to  prevent  this 
— here  is  my  hand — give  it  where  you  please."  She 
stretched  out  her  arm  to  its  full  length — it  was  rigid 
as  iron.  Furlong  advanced  to  take  it,  and  whether 
Leslie  would  have  permitted  such  a  troth-plight  or 
not,  can  not  now  be  ascertained,  for  the  long  form  of 
Alick  the  Traveller,  stalked  abruptly  into  the  room. 

♦'  -\sy,  asy,  for  God's  sake  1 — put  up  y'er  hand,  Miss 
-\nnic,  dear  ;  keep  your  sate,  I  beg.  Mister  Furlong  ; 
no  rason  in  life  for  y'er  rising  ;  all  of  ye  be  asy.     WiU 


260  ANxMK  leslip:. 

nobody  quiet  that  woraan,  for  God's  sake  I"  lie  contin- 
ued, seeing  that  the  dame  was,  naturally  enough,  an- 
gry at  thi.i  intrusion  ;  "  first  let  me  say  my  say,  and 
be  off,  for  sorra  a  minute  have  I  to  waste  upon  ye, 
Robert  Leslie  by  name,  didn't  I,  onsL  upon  a  time,  tell 
ye  truth? — and  a  sore  hearing  it  was,  sure  enough. 
Well  thiji,  I  tell  it  ye  again,  and  if  it's  not  true,  why 
ye  may  hang  me  as  high  as  Howth  ; — don't  let  y'er 
daugluer  mum  herself  away  after  that  fashion.  Mis- 
ter Furlong,  ye're  a  kind-hearted  man,  so  ye  are,  and 
many  a  bit  au'  a  sup  have  ye  bestowed  upon  me  and 
the  baste — thank  ye  kindly  for  that  same — but  yarra  a 
much  sense  ye  have,  or  ye  wouldn't  be  looking  afcer 
empty  nuts  ; — what  the  divil  would  be  the  good  o'  tlie 
hand  o'  that  cratur,  widout  her  heart  ?  And  that  ye'll 
niver  have.  Mistress  Leslie,  ma'am,  honey,  don't  be 
after  blowing  me  up  ; — now  jist  think — sure  I  know 
that  ye  left  the  bonny  bills  and  the  sweet  scented  broom 
of  Scotland,  to  marry  that  Engllsmaa.  And  ye  mind 
the  beautiful  song  that  ye  sing  far  before  any  one  I 
ever  heard — about  loving  in  youth,  and  thin  climbing 
the  hill,  and  thin  sleeping  at  the  fat  of  it — John  An- 
derson, ye  call  it ;  wouldn't  ye  rather  have  y'er  heart's 
first  love,  though  he's  ould  and  gray  now,  than  a  king 
upon  his  throne  ?  Ay,  woman,  that  touches  ye  !  And 
do  ye  think  she  hasn't  some  o'  the  mother's  feel  in  her  ? 
Now,  Mister  Leslie,  don't — don't  any  of  ye  make  her 
promise  to-night ;  yc'll  bless  me  for  this,  even  you, 
Mister  Andrew,  by  to-morrow  sunset ;  promise  Robert 
Leslie !" 

"You  told  me  truth  before,"  said  the  bewildered 
man,  "  and  I  have  no  right  to  doubt  you  now — 1  do 
promise." Alick  strode  out  of  the  cottage  ;  An- 
drew followed,  like  an  enraged  turkey-cock,  and  the 
family  were  left  again  in  solitude.  The  vv'ords  of  the 
fisherman  had  affected  Mrs.  Leslie  deeply  ;  she  had 
truly  fancied  she  was  seeking  her  child's  happiness ; 
and,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  she  remembered  how 


ANNIE  LESLIE.  261 

miserable  she  would  have  been  with  any  other  husband 
than  "  her  ain  gude-man." 

Tlie  little  family  passed  the  night  almost  in  the  ver}^ 
extremity  of  despair.  "  Such,"  said  Leslie  afterward, 
"  as  I  could  not  pass  again  ;  for  the  blood  now  felt  as 
if  frozen  in  my  veins — now  rushing  through  them  with 
fearful  rapidity — and,  as  my  head  rested  on  my  poor 
wife's  shoulder,  the  throbbing  of  my  bursting  temples 
but  echoed  the  beating  of  her  agitated  heart." 
The  early  light  of  morning  found  Annie  in  a  heavy 
sleep ;  and  the  mid-day  sun  glowed  as  brightly  as  if  it 
illumined  the  path-way  of  princes,  on  three  or  four  ill- 
looking  men  who  entered  the  dwelling  of  the  farmer. 
Their  business  was  soon  commenced — it  was  a  work 
of  heart-sickening  desolation.  On  Annie's  pure  and 
cimple  bed  sat  one  of  tlic  officials,  noting  down  each 
article  in  the  apartment.  Leslie,  his  arms  folded,  his 
lips  compressed,  his  forehead  gathered  in  heavy  wrin- 
kles over  his  brow,  stood  firmly  in  the  center  of  the 
room.  Mrs.  Leslie  sat,  her  face  covered  with  her  apron, 
which  was  soon  saturated  by  her  tears,  and  poor  lit. 
tie  Phillis  crouched  beneath  her  chair  ; — Annie  clung 
to  her  father's  arm  ;  her  energies  were  roused  as  she 
feelingly  appealed  to  the  heartless  executors  of  the  law. 
What  increased  the  wretchedness  of  the  scene  was  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Maley  himself,  who  seemed  to  exult 
over  the  misery  of  his  victims.  He  was  not,  however, 
to  have  it  all  his  own  way  ;  several  of  the  more  spir- 
ited neighbors  assembled,  and  forgot  their  own  inter, 
ests  in  their  anxiety  for  the  Leslies.  One  young  fel- 
low entered,  waving  his  shillelah,  and  swearing  in  no 
measured  terms,  that  "  he'd  spill  the  last  drop  of  his 
heart'.s  blood  afore  a  finger  should  be  laid  on  a  single 
scrap  in  the  house."  The  agent's  scowl  changed  into 
a  sneer  as  he  pointed  to  the  document  he  held  in  his 
hand.  This,  however,  was  no  argument  to  satisfy  our 
Irish  champion  ;  and  in  truth  matters  would  have  tak- 
en a  terious  turn,  but  for  the  prompt  interference  of 


262  ANNIE  LESLIE. 

an  old  man,  wlio  held  back  the  arms  of  ihe  young  lie- 
ro.  The  door  was  crowded  b}"  the  sympathizuig  peas- 
antry ;  som.e,  by  tears,  and  many  by  deep  and  awful  ex- 
ecrationf!,  testin?d  their  abhorrence  of  the  man,  "dress, 
ed  in  a  little  brief  authority."  "  Oh  I"  ejaculated  Mrs. 
Leslie,  "  Oh  I  that  I  had  never  lived  to  see  thi;!  day  of 
ruin  and  disgrace  I     Oh  I  Annie,  you  let  it  come " 

"  Hold,  woman  I"  exclaimed  her  husband  ;  "  remem- 
ber v/hat  we  repealed  last  night  to  each  other  ;  remera- 
ber  how  we  prayed,  v;hen  this  poor  child  was  sleeping 
as  in  the  sleep  of  death  ;  remember  how  we  botli  be. 
thought  of  the  fair  names  of  our  parents  ;  how  you  told 
me  of  the  men  of  3'our  kin  who  fought  for  their  faith 
among  your  native  Scottish  hills  :  and  my  own  ances- 
tors, who  left  their  possessions  lor  distant  lands  fur  con- 
science sake  I  O  woman,  Janet,  remember  the  words, 
'  yet  have  I  not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his 
seed  begging  bread.'  " 

Doubtless  Mrs.  Leslie  felt  in  their  full  force  these 
sweet  sounds  of  consolation  ;  again  she  hid  her  face 
and  wept.  It  is  in  the  time  of  afHictiou  that  the  words 
of  scripture  pour  balm  upon  the  wounded  spirit ;  in  the 
world's  turmoil  they  are  often  unhappily  forgotten  ; 
but  in  sorrow  they  are  sought  for,  even  as  the  hart 
seeketh  for  the  water-brooks. 

The  usually  placid  farmer  had  scarcely  given  vent 
to  this  extraordinary  burst  of  feeling,  when  there  v.'as 
a  bustle  outside  the  door,  which  was  speedily  account- 
ed for.  A  post-chaise,  rattled  down  the  lane,  and 
stopped  suddenly  opposite  the  little  green  gale  ;  from 
off  the  crazy  bar,  propped  upon  two  rusty  supporters 
in  front  of  the  creaking  vehicle,  sprang  our  old  friend, 
Alick  the  Traveller. — -  Huzza  I  huzza,  boys  1  Ould 
Ireland  for  ever  !  Och  I  but  the  bones  o'  mg  are  in 
smithereens  from  the  shaking.  Huzza  for  justice  I — 
Boys,  dear,  won't  ye  give  one  shout  for  justice  ?  His  nH 
often  it  trouble  ye — Och  I  stand  out  o'  my  wa}',  for  I'm 
dancing  mad  1  Och  1  by  St.  Patrick  !— Stand  back,  ye 


ANNIE  LESLIE.  263 

pack  o'  bogtrottcrs,  till  I  see  the  meeting.  Och  !  love 
is  the  life  of  a  natc — Och  I  my  heart's  as  big  as  a 
whale  I" 

While  honest  Alick  was  indulging  in  tlicse  and  many 
similar  exclamations,  capering,  snapping  his  fingers, 
(to  use  his  own  expression)  "sky  liigh,"  and  shouting, 
singing,  and  swearing,  with  might  and  main,  two  per- 
sons had  descended  from  the  carriage.  One,  a  tall, 
slight,  gentlemanly  man,  fashionably  enveloped  in  a 
fur  travelling  cloak  ;  the  other  a  jovial  sailor,  whose 
handsome  face  was  expressive  of  the  deepest  anxiety 
and  feeling. 

The  sailor  was  James  McCleary  ;  the  gentleman — 
but  I  must  carry  my  story  decorously  onwards. 

Poor  Annie  I  she  had  suffered  too  much  to  coquet  it 
again.  Whether  she  fainted  or  not  I  do  not  recollect ; 
but  this  I  know,  that  she  leaned  her  weeping  face  upon 
James's  shoulder  ;  and  that  the  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenance varied  to  an  almost  ludricious  degree  : — nov/ 
beaming  with  love  and  tenderness  as  he  looked  upon 
the  maiden — now  speaking  of"  death  and  destruction" 
to  the  crest-fallen  agent.  The  gentleman  stood  for  a 
moment  wondering  at  cvc^y  body,  and  every  body 
wondering  at  him.  At  last,  in  a  firm  voice  he  said, 
"  I  stop  this  proceeding  ;  and  I  order  you  (and  he  fixed 
a  withering  glance  upon  Maley) — I  do  not  recollect 
your  name,  although  I  am  perfectly  acquainted  with 
your  nature — I  order  you,  sir,  to  leave  this  cottage ; 
elsewhere  you  shall  account  for  your  conduct."  Ma- 
ley sank  into  his  native  insignificance  in  an  instant ; 
but  then  impudence,  the  handmaid  of  knavery,  came 
to  his  assistance  ;  pulling  down  his  wig  with  one  hand, 
and  holding  his  spectacles  on  his  ugly  red  snub  nose 
with  the  other,  he  advanced  to  where  the  gentleman 
stood,  and  peeping  up  into  his  face,  while  the  other 
eyed  him  as  an  eagle  would  a  vile  carrion  crow,  in- 
quired,  with  a  quivering  lip,  that  ill  assorted  with  his 
words'  bravery, — "  And  who  the  devil  are  you,   sir, 


264  ANNIE  LESLIE. 

who  interferes  in  what  doesn't  by  any  manner  of  means 
concern  you  ?" 

"  As  you  wish  to  know,  sir,"  replied  the  gentleman, 
removing  his  liat  and  looking  kindl}^  around  on  the 
peasants,  "  I  am  brother  to  your  landlord  I"  Oh,  for 
Wilkic,  to  paint  the  serio-comic  effect  of  that  little 
minute  I — the  look  of  abashed  villany — the  glorious 
feeling  that  suffused  the  honest  farmer's  countenance 
— the  uplifted  hands  and  ejaculations  of  Mrs.  Leslie — 
the  joyous  face  of  Annie,  glistening  all  over  with  smiles 
and  tears — the  hearty,  honest  shout  of  the  villagers — 
and  even  the  merry  bark  of  little  Phillis  ; — then  Alick, 
striding  up  to  the  late  man  of  power,  his  long  back 
curved  into  a  humiliated  bend,  his  hand  and  arm  fully 
extended,  his  right  foot  a  little  advanced,  while  his 
features  varied  from  the  most  contemptuous  and  sa- 
tirical expression  to  one  of  broad  and  gratified  humor, 
addressed  him,  with  mock  reverence  :  "  Mister  Maley, 
sir,  will  ye  allaw  me  (as  the  gintry  sa}'^)  the  pleasure 
to  see  ye  out ;  iL's  your  turn  now,  ould  boy,  though  ye 
don't  know  a  fluke  from  a  jacky-dorey." 

"  Sir — my  lord,"  stammered  out  the  crest-fallen  vil- 
lain, "  I  don't  really  know  what  is  meant ;  1  acted  for 
the  best — for  his  lordship's  interest." 

"  Peace,  man  I"  interupted  the  gentleman  ;  "  I  do 
not  wish  to  expose  you  ;  there  is  my  brother's  letter  ; 
to-morrow  I  will  see  you  at  his  house,  where  his  ser- 
vants are  now  preparing  for  my  reception."  The  man 
and  his  minions  shrunk  away  as  well  and  as  quietly  as 
they  could  ;  and  the  Leslies  had  now  time  to  wonder 
how  all  this  change  had  been  brought  about ;  the  neigh- 
bors lingering  around  tlie  door,  with  a  pardoiiable  cu- 
riosity,  to  "  sec  the  last  of  it." 

"  Ye  may  thank  that  gentleman  for  it  all,"  said 
James  ;  "  besides  being  brother  to  the  landlord,  I  had 
the  honor  to  sarve  under  him,  in  as  brave  a  ship  as 
ever  stcpt  the  sea  ;  and  ye  mind  when  matters  were 
going  hard  here,  Alick  (God  for  ever  bless  him  for  it  I) 


ANNIE  LESLIE.  265 

lurucd  to  at  the  pen  and  wrote  me  every  partieular, 
and  all  about  the  agen's  wickedness;  and  (may  I  say 
It,  Annie,  now  7)  y'er  love  for  me  ;  and  how  out  o'  di- 
vilment  he  sent  the  ould  man  to  make  love  to  you  that 
sorrowful  evening — when  I  went  away — and  then  put 
me  up  to  catch  lum ;  little  thinking  how  the  jealousy 
would  drive  me  mad  ;  well,  his  honor  the  captain  had 
no  pride  in  him" — 

"  Stop,  my  brave  lad,  towards  yoa  I  could  have 
none,"  exclaimed  the  generous  officer  ;  "  where  the 
battle  raged  the  most,  you  were  at  my  side  ;  and  when, 
in  boarding  the  P>enchman,  I  was  almost  nailed  to  the 
deck,  you — you  rushed  forward,  and  amid  death  and 
danger  bore  me,  sadly  v.ounded,  in  your  arms,  back  to 
my  gallant  ship."  He  extended  hisliand  to  the  young 
Irishman,  who  pressed  it  respectfully  to  his  lips. — '•  To 
see  the  like  o'  that  now,"  said  Alick,  "  to  see  him  shak- 
ing hands  with  one  that's  as  good  as  a  lord  I" — "  I  held 
frequent  conversations  with  my  brave  friend,"  eontin« 
ued  the  captain,  "  and  at  length  he  enlightened  me  as 
to  the  treatmeiit  my  brother's  tenants  experienced  from 
the  agent,  and  I  am  come  down  expressly  to  see  jus. 
tice  done  to  all,  who  I  regret  to  find  have  suffered  from, 
the  ill  effects  of  the  absentee  system.  Miss  Leslie,  I 
am  sorry  to  lose  so  good  a  sailor,  but  I  only  increase 
my  number  of  friends  when  I  resign  James  McCleary 
to  his  rightful  owner." 

"  Ocli  I  my  dears,"  exclaimed  Alick  ;  "  it 's  as  good 
as  a  play — a  beautiful  play ;  and  there's  honest  An- 
drew coming  over  ;  don't  toss  him  in  the  cabbage-bed, 
James,  honey,  this  time.  And,  James,  dear,  there's 
your  ould  mother  running  up  the  lane, — well,  ould  as 
she  is,  she  bates  Andrew  at  the  step.  Och  I  Miss  An- 
nie, don't  be  looking  down  after  that  fashion.  And, 
sir,  my  lord,  if  y'er  honor  plases,  ye  won't  forget  the 
little  bit  o'  ground  for  the  baste." 

"  Every  thing  I  have  promised  I  will  perform,"  said 
the  young  man  as  he  withdrew ;  an  example  that  I 
22* 


266  THE  CONTRAST* 

must  follow,  assuring  all  who  read  rny  story  that,  how- 
ever strange  it  may  appear,  Annie  made  an  excellent 
wife,  never  flirted  the  least  bit  in  the  world,  except 
with  her  husband  ;  and  practically  remembered  her 
father's  wise  and  favorite  text — "  /  have  been  young 
and  now  am  old,  yet  have  I  not  seen  the  righteous  for- 
saken,  nor  his  seed  begging  bread." 


BY  MRS.  SIGOURNEY. 

The  mother  sat  beside  her  lire, 

Well  trimmed  it  was,  and  bright, — 

While  loudly  moaned  the  forest  phies. 
Amid  that  wintry  night. 

She  heard  them  not, — those  wind-swept  p'lnez 

For  o'er  a  scroll  she  hung, 
That  bore  her  husband's  voice  of  love, 

As  when  that  love  was  young. 

And  thrice  her  son,  beside  her  knee. 

Besought  her  favoring  eye. 
And  thrice  her  lisping  daughter  spoke, 

Before  she  made  reply. 

"  O,  little  daughter,  many  a  kiss 

Lurks  in  this  treasured  line, — 
And  boy, — a  father's  counsels  fond, 

And  tender  prayers  are  thine. — 

''  Thou  hast  his  proud  and  arching  brow^ 
Thou  hast  his  eye  of  flame, — 


THE  CONTRAST.  267 

And  l)c  the  purpose  of  thy  soul. 
Thy  sunward  course  the  same." 

Then,  as  she  drew  them  to  licr  arms, 

Down  lier  fair  check  would  jjlide 
A  tear,  that  shone  like  diamond  spark, 

Tile  tear  of  love  and  pride. 

She  took  her  infant  from  its  rest, 

And  laid  it  on  her  knee; 
"Tliou  ne'er  liast  seen  thy  sire,"  she  said, 

'•  But  he  Ml  be  proud  of  thee. 

''  Yes, — he  '11  be  proud  of  thee,  my  dove, 

The  lily  of  our  line  ; 
1  know  what  eye  of  blue  he  loves, 

And  such  an  eye  is  thine." 

'•  Where  is  my  father  gone,  mannna  .' 

Why  docs  he  stay  so  long  ?" 
"  He  's  far  away  in  Congrcss-IIail, 

Amid  the  noble  throng. 

•'He  's  in  the  lofty  Congress-Hall, 

To  swell  the  high  debate. 
And  help  to  frame  those  righteous  lawt 

That  make  our  land  so  great. 

"  But  ere  the  earliest  violets  bloom. 

You  in  his  arms  shall  be  ; 
.So  go  to  rest,  my  children  dear, 

And  pray  for  him  and  me." 

The  snow-flakes  reared  their  drifted  mound, 

They  buried  nature  deep. 
Yet  nought  within  that  peaceful  home, 

Stirred  the  soft  down  of  sleep. 


268  THE  CONTRAST. 

For  lightly,  like  an  angel's  dream, 

The  trance  of  slumber  fell, 
Where  innocence  and  holy  love 

Entwined  their  guardian  spell. 

Another  eve, — another  scroll, — 
Wot  ye  what  words  it  said  ? 

Two  words, — two  fearful  words  it  bore,— 
The  duel  I — and  the  dead  !  .' — 

The  duel .' — and  the  dead  !  I — how  dark 
Was  that  young  motlier's  eye, 

How  fearful  her  protracted  swoon — 
How  wild  her  piercing  cry. 

There '.s  many  a  wife,  whose  bosom's  lord 

Is  m  his  prime  laid  low — 
Engulphed  beneath  the  wat'ry  main. 

While  bitter  tempests  blow  ; 

Or  crushed  amid  the  battle-field, 

Where  crim.son  rivers  flow  ; 
Yet  know  they  not  the  deadly  pang 

That  dregs  her  cup  of  wo. 

Who  lies  so  powerless  on  her  couch, 
Transfixed  by  sorrow's  sting  ? 

Her  infant  in  its  nurse's  arms 
Like  a  forgotten  thing  ? 

A  dark-haired  boy  is  at  her  side, 

He  lifts  his  eagle  eye, 
■''■  Mother, — they  say  my  father's  dead, 

How  did  my  father  die  ?" 


FAIR  ANXIE  MACLEOD.  269 

Again, — the  spcar-point  in  her  breast ! 

Again, — that  shriek  of  pain  I 
Child  I — thou  hast  riven  thy  nioliier's  soul, 

Speak  not  those  words  again. 

"  .Speak  not  those  words  again,  my  son  I" 

What  boots  the  fruitless  care  ? 
They  're  written  whereso'cr  siie  turns, 

On  ocean,  earth,  or  air. 

They're  seared  upon  her  shrinking  heart, 

That  bursts  beneath  its  doom  ; 
The  duel  ! — and  the  dead  ! — they  haunt 

The  threshold  of  her  tonjb. 

So,  llirougii  her  brief  and  weary  years 

That  broken  heart  she  bore, 
And  on  her  pale  and  drooping  brow 

The  smile  sat  never  more. 


BY  3IKS.  CRAV.'FOKD. 

Those  attachments  that  take  place  in  early  life, 
contrary  to  the  wishes  of  lender  and  not  ambitious 
parents,  seldom,  if  ever,  end  happil}'.  l^he  ia^nis 
falnus  of  passion,  which  leads  the  young  and  trusting 
maid  to  the  arms  of  her  lover,  vanishes  when  the  cares 
of  her  own  creating  press  upon  the  heart  of  the  wife 
and  mother. 

In  my  native  village,  before  I  had  entered  upon  that 
world  which  owes,  like  some  descriptions  of  beauty, 
half  il3  enchantment  to  the  veil  that  ohadcs  it,  I  v.a.s 


270  FAIR  ANNIE  MACLEOD. 

acquainted  with  a  young  maiden,  whose  personal  and 
mental  attractions  were  of  that  cast  which  romance 
loves  to  betray. 

Annie  Macleod  was  the  belle  of  our  little  hamlet. 
She  had  a  bright  and  loving  eye  ;  a  cheek  ever  dimp- 
ling with  the  smiles  of  gladness ;  and  a  fairy  foot, 
which  was  as  elastic  as  the  stem  of  the  bonnie  blue 
bell,  her  favorite  flower.  Annie  had  many  lovers  ;  but 
one,  a  stranger  at  Roslin,  was  the  chosen  of  her  heart. 
To  him  her  hand  was  often  given  in  the  dance ;  and 
many  were  the  inquiring  glances  at,  and  frequently 
the  whispered  surmise  about  him,  by  'kerchiefed  ma- 
tron and  snooded  maid.  Annie's  was  a  first  love  ;  and, 
like  every  thing  that  is  rare  and  beautiful,  Vv^hen  seen 
for  the  first  time,  was  irresistible.  Just  emerging  from 
the  girl  into  womanhood,  with  all  the  unwe'akened  ro- 
mance  of  nature  playing  round  her  day-dreams,  and 
coloring  the  golden  visions  of  her  sleep,  the  manly 
beauty  of  the  stranger's  countenance,  and  the  superior 
refinement  of  his  speech  and  manners  to  the  youth  of 
that  sequestere  1  hamlet,  came  with  all  the  power  of 
enchantment  to  ensnare  and  bewilder  her  innocent 
mind. 

Rumors  about  this  favored  stranger  at  length  reached 
the  ears  of  Annie's  mother — unfortunately,  she  had  no 
father.  Questioned  by  her  parent,  her  answers  were 
in  character  with  her  youth  and  simplicity.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  stranger  ;  but  "  was  sure  he  was  a  gen- 
tleman, for  he  had  offered,  and  really  meant,  to  marry 
her."  Mrs.  Macleod,  upon  this  information,  acted 
without  delay.  She  forbade  Annie,  on  pain  of  her 
maternal  displeasure,  to  see  the  stranger  again,  unless 
he,  by  his  own  conduct,  proved  himself  to  be  worthy 
of  her.  But  on  a  fine  Sabbath  morning,  when  going 
to  kirk,  dressed  out  in  all  her  pretty  bravery,  and 
blooming  as  the  rose-colored  ribbons  that  tied  her  bon- 
net, Annie  met  the  stranger  at  the  place  where  they 
had  so  often  held  tryste  together ;  and  there  Robin 


FAIR  ANNIE  MACLEOD.  271 

Bainbogle,  as  he  crossed  the  rude  bridge  lliat  leads 
over  a  wild  ravine  lo  Roslin  Castle,  saw,  as  he  said, 
"  the  boniiie  lassie  for  the  last  time,  wi'  a  face  like  a 
dripping  rose."  Tears  Annie  might,  and  probably  did 
shed — but  that  day  she  fled  from  her  home. 

Years  ])assed  away.  The  mother  of  the  lost  girl 
sank  under  this  blow  to  her  parental  hopes.  The 
young  maidens,  Annie's  compeers  in  age  and  beauty, 
became  wives  and  mothers  ;  and  the  name  of  "  fair 
Annie  Macleod"  was  seldom  mentioned  but  by  sage 
matrons,  to  warn  their  daughters,  or  by  chaste  spin- 
sters  to  draw  comparisons  to  their  own  advantage. 

It  was  on  a  dark  and  stormy  night  in  November, 

189:2,  that  the  pious  and  venerable  pastor  of was 

sent  for  to  attend  a  dying  woman.  Wrapped  in  his 
plaid,  the  kind  man  walked  hurriedly  along  the  com- 
mon footway  to  a  settlement  of  squalid  cotlages,  such 
as  vice  and  poverty  usually  inhabit.  In  one  of  these 
cottages,  or  rather  huts,  he  found  the  object  of  his 
search.  Pale,  emaciated,  and  sinking  away,  like  the 
flickering  light  of  an  exhausted  taper,  lay  the  once 
beautiful — the  once  innocent  and  happy  Annie  Mac- 
leod. What  had  been  her  fate  since  she  left  her  moth- 
er's roof 'twas  easy  to  imagine,  though  the  veil  of  se- 
crecy rested  upon  the  particulars  of  her  history.  Her 
senses  were  at  times  unsettled  ;  and  it  was  only  dur. 
ing  the  short  gleamings  of  a  sounder  mind,  that  she 
was  able  to  recognize  in  the  Rev.  Dugald  Anderson, 
the  pastor  of  licr  sinless  youth,  and  to  recommend  to 
him,  witli  all  the  pathos  of  dying  love,  the  pretty,  un- 
conscious child  that  slumbered  at  her  side.  That  done, 
her  heart,  like  the  last  string  of  a  neglected  lu!e, 
broke,  and  the  spirit  that  had  once  so  joyously  rev- 
elled in  its  abode  of  loveliness,  fled  from  the  ruined 
tenement  of  beauty  for  ever. 

"And  these  are  the  fruits  of  love  !"  said  Anderson, 
bitlcrly,  as  he  eyed  the  cold  and  stiffened  features  of 


272  FAIR  ANNIE  3IACLE0D. 

Annie.  "Oh  I  monstrous  violation  of  that  hallowed 
name  1" 

"  Of  a  troth,  't  is  a  sair  sight !"  said  an  old  woman, 
the  owner  of  the  hut ;  "  and  I  count  me  the  judgment 
o'  the  gude  God  winna  sleep  nor  slumber  on  sic  doings 
as  the  ruin  o'  this  puir  lassie." 

"No,"  said  Anderson,  emphatically,  "the justice  of 
God  may  seem  to  slumber,  but  is  awake.  Accursed  is 
the  seducer  of  innocence ;  yea,  the  curse  of  broken 
hearts  is  upon  him.  It  shall  come  home  to  his  heart 
and  to  his  spirit,  till  he  lie  down  and  die,  in  very  wea- 
riness of  life." 

The  pious  pastor  took  home  the  little  Alice  to  the 
Manse  ;  and  after  the  remains  of  her  mother  were  de- 
cently interred  in  the  village  kirkyard,  a  simple  head- 
stone, inscribed  with  her  name,  told  of  the  last  resting 
place  of  "  fair  Annie  Macleod." 

Some  years  subsequently  to  this  melancholy  event, 

the  good  pastor  of went  out,  as  was  his  wont,  to 

"  meditate  at  even-tide."  As  he  stood  leaning  over 
the  white  wicket  gate,  that  opened  from  his  garden  in- 
to the  church-yard,  thoughts  of  early  days  and  early 
friends  came  trooping  to  his  mind. 

"  No  after  friendship's  e'er  can  raise 
The  endearments  of  our  early  days ; 
And  ne'er  the  heart  such  fondness  prove. 
As  wlien  \tjirst  began  to  love."' 

The  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  shone  full  upon  the 
windows  of  the  chapel,  reflecting  from  them  a  thou- 
sand mimic  glories.  His  eye  glanced  from  the  holy  ed- 
ifice to  the  simple  tombs,  partially  lighted  by  the  slant- 
ing sun-beams,  as  they  quivered  through  the  branches 
of  the  patriarchal  trees,  which  here  and  there  hung 
over  the  forgotten  dead.  Suddenly,  a  man  habited  in 
a  foreign  garb,  advanced  up  the  broad  pathway  leading 
from  the  village.  Looking  about  him,  he  at  la.^t  stood 
opposite  a  v.'hite  headstone,  over  which  a  decayed  yew 


FAin  ANNIE  ?TACLnOD.  27" 

thrf^Vi'  its  meiannhnl}^  rliadow.  ll  wa^?  iho  hradstonr 
tlia!  marked  llin  grave  of  ihe  or.cc  joyns  Annie,  As 
if  oppressed  by  some  suddea  emotion,  he  sank  ratlier 
tlian  leaned  against  the  liollovr  trunk  ;  but  soon  ajrain 
returning  to  the  g-rave,  he  Itnelt  dovrn,  and  buryinjT  liip 
face  with  both  hands,  appeared  to  weep.  The  good 
pastor,  interested  in  the  scene,  stood  gazing  unob- 
served at  the  stranger,  who,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few 
seconds,  rose  up  from  his  knees,  and  turned  away  as  if 
to  retrace  his  steps.  Then  again  coming  back,  he 
stooped  down,  and  plucking  something  from  the  green- 
sward, kissed  it,  hid  it  in  his  bosom,  and  v/ith  rapid 
sleps  left  the  church-yard. 

Anderson  returned  into  the  3Ianse,  drev/  a  chair  to 
the  hearth,  sat  down,  took  up  a  book,  laid  it  down 
again,  and  walked  out  into  the  little  com-t  that  fronted 
the  village.  A  feeling  of  cariosity  perhaps  led  him  to 
glajice  his  eye  over  the  way,  where  stood  the  only  ale- 
house in  the  hamlet,  when  he  saw  the  same  stranger 
come  out,  and,  crossing  the  road,  stop  at  his  own  gate. 
To  his  inquiry  if  the  Ilev.  Dugald  Anderson  was  at 
home,  the  good  pastor,  answering  in  the  affirmative, 
courteously  held  back  the  gate  for  the  stranger  to  en- 
ter ;  while  the  little  bare-footed  lassie  who  opened  the 
door,  seeing  a  visiter  with  her  master,  bustled  onwards, 
and  ushered  them  into  the  best  parlor,  carefully  wiping 
v.'ith  a  corner  of  her  blue-checked  apron  the  tall,  spin- 
ster-looking elbow  chair,  and  then  vrithdrew  to  tell 
the  young  Andersons  what  "  a  bra'  gallant  the  master 
liad  brought  hame  wi'  him." 

The  stranger's  appearance  justified  Jennie's  enco- 
miums. Though  past  ihe  summer  of  his  life,  the  un- 
extinguished fire  of  youth  still  lingered  in  his  dark  full 
eye  ;  and  his  tall  athletic  person  accorded  well  with 
the  lofty  bearing  of  his  looks,  and  t)ie  refined  courtesy 
of  his  manners. 

"  I  believe,"  said  he,  addressing  Anderson,  "  you 
23 


274  FAIR  ANNIE  r.IACLEOD. 

have  the  care  of  a  young  giiL  wiiose  mother  died  some 
years  suice  ?" 

"You  mean  llie  danohtor  of  Annie  ^lacleod  ?" 

"  The  same  ;  and  il  is  to  ascertain  her  siluaiion  in 
yonr  family,  that  I  liavc  ttken  the  liberty  to  wait  up- 
on  you." 

"  Her  situation  in  my  family,  my  g;ood  sir,"  said  the 
worthy  man,  "is  that  of  a  daughter  to  myself — a  sis- 
ter to  my  children.  The  calamity  which  robbed  her 
so  early  of  her  mother  was  an  inducement,  but  cer- 
tainly not  the  only  one,  to  my  becoming  her  protector. 
T  was  acquainted  with  her  mother  in  the  happier  years 
of  her  life  ;  and  the  friendship  which  I  had  felt  for 
Annie  Macleod,  revived  in  full  force  when  duty  con- 
ducted to  her  death-bed.  I  there  pledged  myself  to  be 
a  father  to  the  fatherless ;  to  keep  her  unspotted  from 
the  world — the  pitiless  world,  as  the  dying  mother 
called  it,  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  her  wandering 
mind." 

"  What !"  said  the  stranger ;  "  did  sorrow  overcome 
her  reason  ?" 

"  Alas  I  yes  ;  for  many  weeks  before  her  death,  they 
told  me  that  her  senses  v^ere  completely  gone ;  and 
u'hen  I  saw  her  in  the  last  mortal  struggle,  the  deli- 
rium of  mind  was  only  partially  broken  in  upon  by 
flashes  of  reason." 

The  features  of  the  stranger  became  convulsed,  and 
he  seemed  to  wrestle  with  some  violent  einotion. 

"  You  were  a  friend — perhaps  relative,  of  the  un- 
fortunate  Annie  ?"  rejoined  Anderson. 

"  Yes — I  was  a  friend  ; — tliat  is,  I — I — knew  her," 
£sid  the  stranger. 

"  Then  you  will  like  to  see  my  little  charge ;"  and 
vs'ithout  waiting  reply,  the  good  pastor  left  the  apart- 
ment;  but  almost  immediately  returned,  holding  by 
the  hand  a  pretty  fair-haired  girl,  v.'ith  dark  blue  eyes, 
that  seemed  made  for  weeping.     "  Tlii.?."  said  Ander- 


FAIR  ANNIE  M.^CLEOD.  275 

son,  leading  Iicr  towards  the  stra,nger,  "is  Alice  3Iac- 
leod,  or,  as  she  calls  hertr-elf,  Birdalanc."* 

The  stranger  drew  her  to  him ;  and  taking  her 
hand,  gazed  long  and  earnestly  in  her  blushing  face. 
"  Why  do  you  call  yourself  Birdalane,  my  pretty 
child  ■?" 

"  Because  nurse  called  me  so,  when  she  used  to  cry 
over  me,  and  say  I  had  no  mother  and  no  father  to 
love  me,  and  give  me  pretty  things,  like  Donald  and 
Ellon  Anderson." 

The  .stranger's  eye  fell,  and  tears  hung  upon  the 
dark  lashes  that  swept  his  cheeks.  He  rose,  and 
walked  to  the  window  ;  and  Anderson  heard  the  long- 
drawn  sigh  that  seemed  to  burst  from  a  heart  laden 
with  old  remembrances.  Presently  turning  to  the 
pastor,  he  said,  "  I  am  satisfied,  good  sir,  fully  satis- 
fied, that  this  friendless  one  cannot  be  in  better  hands, 
to  fulfil  her  mother's. wish,  and  keep  her  'unspotted 
from  the  world.'  "  Then  presenting  a  sealed  packet, 
he  added,  warmly  grasping  Anderson's  hand,  "  Be  still 
a  father  to  that  orphan  girl,  and  God  requite  you  ten- 
fold in  blessings  upon  your  own  1"  He  stooped  dov.n, 
kissed  the  wondering  Alice,  and  hastily  left  the  apart- 
ment. Anderson  went  to  the  v/indow,  and  in  a  few 
moments  he  saw  a  groom  lead  out  two  horses.  The 
stranger  mounted  one,  and  putting  spurs  to  his  steed, 
Anderson  soon  lost  sight  of  him  in  the  winding.^  of  the 
road. 

The  worthv  pastor,  dismissing  the  little  Alice  to 
her  playmates,  prepared  to  open  the  packet.  In  an 
envelope,  upon  which  was  written,  "  A  marriage  por- 
tion for  the  daughter  of  Annie  Macleod,"  wa3  a  draft, 
for  one  thousand  pounds  ;  and  on  a  paper  folded  round 
a  small  miniature,  the  following  words  :  "  A  likeness 
of  Annie,  such  as  she  was  when  the  writer  first  knew 

*  Birdalane.  means  in  Scotch,  the  last,  or  only  one  of 
their  nice — one  who  has  outlived  all  ties. 


'J/0  FAIU  ANNIE  3IACLE0D. 

])er.  'T  iy  iiuw  but  the  thaciow  of  a  shade.  The 
beaut}',  galeiy,  and  itinocence,  it  would  perpetuate, 
are  gone,  like  the  hopes  of  him,  who  still  eliiigs  to  the 
iijcniory  of  what  she  w 
of  an  laidyiijg  remorse. 

Some  time  after  this  event,  business  called  Anderson 
to  Edinburgh.  One  day,  while  perambulating  the 
streets  on  his  various  engagements,  he  saw  the  self- 
same figure,  which  remained  indelibly  imprinted  on 
his  i7iemory — the  identical  mysterious  stranger,  who 
had  visited  him  at  tlie  Manse,  issue  from  the  castle 
gates,  and  descend  with  a  slow  step  and  melancholy 
air,  down  the  high  street.  Curiosity,  or  perhaps  a 
better  feeling,  prompted  Anderson  to  follow  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  ascertain  who  he  was.     It  was  Lord . 

"  'T  is  even  as  I  thought,"  said  the  good  pastor ; 

"poor  Annie  fell   a  victim  to  the  arts  of  Lord . 

Alas  I  he  was  too  accomplished  a  seducer,  for  such 
artlessness  as  hers  to  cope  with." 

The  su'cct  tics  that  bind  the  sons  of  virtue  to  their 
sjcial  fireside,  arc  too  simple  for  the  epicurean  taste 
of  the  libertine  ;  the  tender  interchange  of  wedded 
minds,  the  endearing  caress  of  legitimate  love,  are 
simple  wild  flovi'ers,  that  wither  in  that  hot-bed  of 
sensuality,  a  corrupt  heart.  Never  can  the  proud  joy, 
the  refined  pleasures  of  a  faithful  husband,  be  his. 

For  higli  the  bliss  that  waits  on  wedded  love, 
Best,  purest  emblem  of  the  bliss  above  : 
To  draw  new  raptures  from  another's  joy, 
To  share  each  pang,  and  half  its  sting  destroy. 
Of  one  fond  heart  to  be  the  slave  and  lOrd, 
Bless  and  be  blessed,  adore  and  be  adored, — 
To  own  the  link  of  soul,  the  chain  of  mind, 
.^ublimest  friendship,  passion  most  refined, — 
Passion,  to  life's  last  evening  hour  still  warm, 
And  friendship,  brightest  in  the  darkest  storm. 

To  conclude.  The  little  Alice  never  left  the  Manse, 
where  she  lived  as  her  mother  wished,  "  unspotted 


THE  YOUNG  POET.  277 

from  the  world."  As  she  grew  to  womanliood,  her 
simple  beauty  and  artless  manners  won  the  affections 
of  Donald  Anderson,  the  son  of  her  henefactor.  They 
were  married,  and  often  when  Alice  looked  upon  the 
smiling  cherubs  that  climbed  her  maternal  knee,  the 
silver-headed  pastor,  as  he  sate  by  the  ingle  in  his 
elbow  chair,  would  put  on  an  arch  expression,  and  ask 
her  where  was  Birdalane  now  ?  while  Alice,  blushing, 
and  laughing,  would  draw  her  little  nestlers  closer  to 
her  womanly  bosom,  and  so  answer  the  good  man. 
After  a  life  of  active  charity,  full  of  years  and  good 

deeds,  the  venerable  pastor  of slept  the  sleep  of 

peace,  in  that  church  where  he  had  often  roused  others 
from  a  darker  slumber  than  that  of  death.  After  his 
decease,  and  Vv'rittcn  in  the  neat  old-fashioned  hand  of 
his  father,  Donald  Anderson  found  amongst  his  papers 
a  manuscript,  dated  many  years  back,  containing  the 
history  of  Annie  Macleod  ;  which,  with  some  slight 
alterations,  and  the  omission  of  particular  names,  (for 
obvious  reasons,)  is  now  submitted  to  those  readers, 
whose  hearts  will  not  permit  their  heads  to  criticise  a 
shnple  and  unadorned  tale. 


BY  MRS.  ABDY. 

"  Young  Poet,  take  the  lyre. 

And  wake  its  sleeping  fire 
To  the  glad  wonders  of  thy  own  sweet  story  ; 

Tell  of  the  palmy  state 

That  crowns  his  envied  fate 
Who  stands  upon  the  height  of  minstrel  glory. 
23* 


278  THE  YOUNG  POET. 

"  Tell  of  the  pkudifs  loud 

Gained  in  the  dazzling  crown, 
Where  lamps,  and  gems,  and  starry  eyes  are  beamino- 

Tell  of  the  thoughts  that  start  ^ 

Within  the  springing  heart 
In  the  calm  hours  of  solitary  dreaming. 

"  Thou  seem'st  to  me  to  stand 

On  an  enchanted  land, 
Lulled  to  repose  by  soft  and  magic  measures  ; 

Tell  then  those  joys  to  me, 

Unfold  thy  destiny. 
And  sing,  young  poet,  of  its  fairy  treasures," 

The  Poet  sadly  sighed, 

"  Expect  no  song  of  pride, 
Lady,  from  me,  no  glad  and  bright  revealings  ; 

Mine  is  a  mournful  tale. 

Mine  is  a  dirge-like  wail 
Of  withered  hopes,  false  joys,  and  blighted  feelings. 

"  I  scorn  the  servile  strain 

Breathed  by  the  idle  train. 
Such  flatteries  are  but  worthless  dross  and  glitter  ; 

Like  Dead  Sea  fruits  they  smile. 

Charming  the  eye  awhile. 
But  to  the  taste  are  mocking  false  and  bitter. 

"  I  occupy  alone. 

An  intellectual  throfte. 
My  shrinking  subjects  will  not  let  me  love  them. 

Even  my  kindred  learn 

In  trembling  awe  to  turn 
From  the  kind  gaze  of  him  that  towers  above  them. 

"  The  thoughts  thou  deem'st  so  bright. 
Start  not  at  once  to  light, 
The  bard  must  slowly  nurse  his  fragile  numbers ; 


THE  YOL'NG  POET.  279 

They  crown  hh  midnight  toil, 
His  bioom  and  health  they  spoil, 
And  rob  of  rest  his  short  and  feverish  slumbers. 

"  The  miner  strives  in  pain, 

Wasting  his  youth  to  gain 
A  few  bright  gems  by  eager  worldlings  cherished,. 

They  shine  in  com-tly  halls. 

But  none  his  lot  recals. 
Who  in  the  brilliant  labor  slowly  perished. 

"  And  thus  the  Poet's  thought. 

To  palaces  is  brought. 
All  to  its  flashing  rays  their  homage  render  ; 

Its  owner  droops  the  while — 

Alas  I  his  funeral  pile 
Was  lighted  by  his  mind's  destructive  splendor. 

"  Lady,  thine  eyes  are  dim  ; 

Oh  !  shed  not  tears  for  him 
Who  owns  that  sweetest,  best  of  consolations. 

The  thought  that  he  has  given 

To  serve  the  cause  of  heaven. 
The  freshness  of  his  earliest  inspirations. 

"  1  have  not  weekly  bowed 

To  the  deluding  crowd. 
But  it  has  ever  been  my  high  endeavor 

That  all  who  read  my  lays 

May  learn  His  name  to  praise. 
Whose  mercy  and  whose  love  endure  for  ever. 

"  I  grieve  a  sway  to  hold 

O'er  triflcrs  vain  and  cold. 
Their  fickle  heartlessness  has  deeply  tried  me, 

But  in  a  land  more  blest, 

I  trust  to  gain  the  rest 
That  earth's  ungrrateful  children  have  denied  me."' 


280  COUNTRY  LODGINGS. 

The  Poet  ceased  ;  and  I 

Took  back  wiih  streaming  eye 
The  lyre  that  he  had  wakened  thus  to  sadnesr 

And,  when  I  hear  the  throng 

Speak  of  that  child  of  song, 
I  think  on  hini  with  mingled  grief  and  gladnt 


Heavier,  each  day  shall  seem 
The  bonds  that  fetter  his  young  f-piriL's  lightness 

With  joy — for  I  helicTe 

He  shall  in  heaven  receive 
A  crown  of  lasting  and  immortal  brightness. 


BY  WISS  MITFOFlD. 

Between  two  and  three  years  ago,  the  following 
pithy  advertisement  appeared  in  several  of  the  London 
papers : — 

"  Country  Lodgings. — Apartments  to  let  in  a  large 
farm-house,  situate  in  a  cheap  and  pleasant  village, 
about  forty  miles  from  London.  Apply  (if  by  letter, 
post-paid)  to  A.  B.,  No.  7,  Salisbury-street,  Strand." 

Little  did  I  think,  whilst  admiring  in  the  broad  page 
of  the  "  Morning  Chronicle"  the  compendious  brevity 
of  this  announcement,  that  the  pleasant  village  referred 
to  was  our  own  dear  Aberleigh ;  and  that  the  first 
tenant  of  those  apartments  should  be  a  lady  whose  fam- 
ily I  had  long  known,  and  in  whose  fortunes  and  des- 
tiny I  took  a  more  than  common  interest  I 

Upton  Court  was  a  manor-house  of  considerable  ex- 
tent, which  had  in  former  times  been  the  residence  of 
a  distinguished  Catholic   family,  but   which,  in  the 


changes  of  property  iuciJuiit  to  <->ur  lluulualirig  neigh- 
borhood ;  wao  '•  falicu  from  ita  liigh  cstat-e,"  and  de- 
graded into  the  h  jincslcad  of  a  farm  so  small,  that  the 
tenant,  a  yeoiiian  cf  the  pourest  class,  was  fahi  to  eke 
oat  his  reijt  by  entering  into  an  agreement  v.ith  a  spec- 
ulating Belford  uuholsicrer,  and  letting  oil"  a  part  of 
the  fine  old  mansion  ia  the  shape  of  furnished  lodgings. 

Xothmg  could  be  finer  than  the  situation  of  Upton, 
placed  on  the  sumaiit  of  a  steep  acclivity,  looking  over 
a  rich  and  fertile  valley  to  a  range  of  woody  hills  ;  no- 
thing more  beautiful  than  tlie  approach  from  Eelford, 
the  road  leadmg  across  a  common  between  'a  double 
row  of  noble  oaks,  the  ground  on  Oiie  side  sinking  with 
the  abruptness  of  a  north-country  burn,  whilst  a  clear 
^:pring,  bursting  from  the  hill  side,  made  its  way  to  the 
bottom  between  patches  of  shaggy  underwood  and  a 
grove  of  small  trees  ;  a  vine-covered  cottage  just  peep- 
ing between  the  foliage,  and  the  picturesque  outlhie  of 
the  Court,  with  its  old  fashioned  porch,  its  long  v/in- 
dov»-s,  and  its  tall,  clustered  chimneys  towering  in  the 
distance.  It  was  the  prettiest  prospect  in  all  Aber- 
leigh. 

The  house  itself  retained  strong  marks  of  former 
stateliness,  especially  in  one  projecting  wing,  too  re- 
mote from  the  yard  to  be  devoted  to  the  domestic  pur- 
poses of  the  farmer's  family.  The  fine  proportions  of 
the  lofty  a  .  1  spacious  apartments,  the  rich  mouldings 
of  the  ceilings,  the  carved  chunncy-pieces,  and  the 
panelled  walls,  all  attested  the  former  grandeur  of 
ihe  mansion,  whilst  the  fragments  of  stained  glass  in 
the  windows  of  the  great  gallery,  the  half-effaced  coat 
of  arms  over  the  door-way,  the  faded  family  portraits, 
grim  black-visaged  knights,  and  pale  shadowy  ladies, 
or  the  relifjues  of  mouldering  tapestry  that  fluttered 
against  the  walls,  and,  above  all,  the  secret  chamber 
constructed  for  the  priest's  hiding-place  in  days  of 
Protestant  persecution,  for  in  darker  ages  neitlier  of 
the  dominant  churches  v/as  free  from  that  foul  stain, 


2S2  COUNTRY  LODGINGS. 

— each  of  these  vestiges  of  the  manners  and  the  histo- 
ry of  limes  long  gone  by  appealed  to  the  imagination, 
and  conspired  to  give  a  Mrs.  RadclifFe-like,  Castle.oi- 
Udolpho-sort  of  romance  to  the  manor-house.  Really, 
when  the  Vvdnd  swept  through  the  overgrown  espaliers 
of  that  neglected  but  luxuriant  vx'ilderness,  the  ter- 
raced garden ;  when  the  screech-owl  shrieked  from 
the  ivy  which  clustered  up  one  side  of  the  walls,  "  and 
rats  and  mice,  and  such  small  deer,"  were  playing 
their  pranks  behind  the  v.'ainscot,  it  would  have  formed 
as  pretty  a  locality  for  a  supernatural  adventure,  as 
any  decayed  hunting-lodge  in  the  recesses  of  the  Hartz, 
or  ruined 'fortress  of  the  Castle  Rhine.  Nothing  was 
wanting  but  the  ghost,  and  a  ghost  of  any  taste  would 
have  been  proud  of  such  a  habitation. 

Less  like  a  ghost  than  the  inhabitant  who  did  arrive, 
no  human  being  well  could  be. 

Mrs.  Cameron  was  a  young  widow. — Her  father,  a 
Scotch  officer,  well-born,  sickly,  and  poor,  had  been 
but  too  happy  to  bestow  the  hand  of  his  only  child  up- 
on an  old  friend  and  fellow-countryman,  the  princi- 
pal clerk  in  a  government  office,  whose  respectable 
station,  easy  fortune,  excellent  sense,  and  super-excel- 
lent  character,  were,  as  he  thought,  and  as  fathers, 
right  or  wrong,  are  apt  to  think,  advantages  more  than 
sufficient  to  counterbalance  a  disparity  of  years  and 
appearance,  which  some  daughters  might  have  thought 
startling, — the  bride  being  a  beautiful  giri  of  seven- 
teen, the  bridegroom  a  plain  man  of  seven-and-fifty. 
In  this  case,  at  least,  the  father  was  right.  He  lived 
long  enough  to  see  that  the  voung  wife  was  unusually 
attached  to  her  kind  and  indulgent  husband,  and  died, 
about  a  twelvemonth  after  the  marriage,  v/ith  the  full- 
est  confidence  in  her  respectabilit}'^  and  happiness. 
Mr.  Cameron  did  not  long  survive  him.  Before  she 
was  nineteen  the  fair  Helen  Cameron  was  a  widow 
and  an  orphan,  with  one  beautiful  boy,  to  whom  she 
was  ]ci\  sole  guardian,  an  income  being  secured  to  her 


COUNTRY  LODGINGS.  2S3 

ample  for  her  rank  in  life,  but  clogged  wilii  ihe  one 
condition  oflicr  not  marrying;  again. 

Such  was  the  tenanl,  who,  u-earied  of  her  dull  sub. 
urban  home,  a  red  brick  house  in  the  middle  of  a  row 
of  red  brick  houses  ;  tired  of  the  loneliness  which  nev- 
er presses  so  much  upon  the  spirits  as  when  left  soli- 
tary in  the  environs  of  a  great  city  ;  pining  for  coun- 
try liberty,  for  green  trees,  and  fresh  air  ;  much  caught 
by  the  picturesqueness  of  Upton,  and  its  mixture  of 
old-fashioned  stateliness  and  village  rusticity  ;  and, 
perhaps,  a  little  swayed  by  a  desire  to  be  near  an  old 
friend  and  correspondent  of  the  mother,  to  whose 
memory  she  was  so  strongly  attached,  came  in  the 
budding  spring  time,  the  showery,  flowery  month  oi' 
April,  to  spend  the  ensuing  summer  at  the  Court. 

We,  on  our  part,  regarded  hor  arrival  v/ith  no  com- 
mon interest.  To  me  it,  seemed  but  yesterday  since  I 
had  received  an  epistle  of  thanks  for  a  present  of  one 
ofdear  Mary  Howitt's  charming  children's  books, — an 
epistle  undoubtedly  not  indited  by  the  writer, — in  huge 
round  text,  between  double  pencil  lines,  with  certain 
small  errors  of  orthography  corrected  ia  a  smaller 
hand  above  ;  followed  in  due  time  b}'  postscripts  to  her 
mother's  letters,  upon  one  single  line,  and  tlie  spelling 
much  amended  ;  then  by  a  short,  very  short  note  in 
French  ;  and  at  last,  by  a  despatch  of  unquestionable 
authenticity,  all  about  doves  and  rabbits, — a  holiday 
scrawl,  rambling,  scrambliiig,  and  uneven,  and  free 
from  restrauit  as  heart  could  desire.  It  appeared  but 
yesterday  since  Helen  Graham  was  herself  a  child  ; 
and  here  she  Vv'as,  within  two  miles  of  us,  a  widow  and 
a  mother  ! 

Our  correspondence  had  been  broken  off  by  the  death, 
of  Mrs.  Graham  when  she  was  about  ten  years  eld. 
and  although  I  had  twice  called  upon  her  in  my  cas- 
ual visits  to  town  during  the  lifetime  of  Mr.  Cameron, 
and  although  these  visits  had  been  most  punctually 
returned,  it  had   happened,  as  those  thing>  do  happen 


284  COTJXTRY  LOBGTNGS. 

in  dear,  provoking;  London,  v.-herc  one  i-^  fv-o  in  mipr 
t!ic  people  one  most  v;ifhes  to  roc.  that  neither  party 
liad  ever  Ijcen  at  liome  ;  ro  tiiat  we  liad  never  met,  and 
I  was  at  full  liberty  to  indulfre  in  my  foolish  propensi- 
ty of  sketching  in  my  mind's  e;/e  a  fancy  portrait  of 
my  unknown  friend. 

n  Pensero?o  is  not  more  different  from  L' Allegro 
llian  was  my  anticipation  from  the  charminjT  reality. 
Remembering  well  her  mothcr'c  delicate  and  fragile 
grace  of  figure  a)id  countenance,  and  coupling  w^th 
that  recollection  her  own  unprotected  and  solitary 
slate,  and  somewhat  melancholy  story,  I  had  pictured 
to  myself  (as  if  contrast  were  not  in  this  world  of  ours 
much  more  frequent  than  congruity)  a  mild,  pensive, 
interesting,  fair-haired  beauty,  tall,  pale,  and  slender  ; 
I  found  a  Hebe,  an  Euphrosjme, — a  round,  rosy,  jo}-- 
ous  creature,  the  very  impersonation  of  youth,  health, 
sweetness,  and  gayety,  laughter  flashing  from  her  ha- 
7.el  eyes,  smiles  dimpling  round  her  coral  lips,  and  the 
rich  curl  of  her  chestnut  hair, — for  having  been  four- 
teen months  a  widow,  she  had,  of  course,  laid  aside 
the  peculiar  dress, — the  glossy  ringlets  of  her  "bonny 
brown  hair"  literally  bursting  from  the  comb  that  at- 
lempted  to  confine  them. 

We  soon  found  that  her  mind  was  as  charming  as 
lier  person.  Indeed,  her  face,  lovely  as  it  v/as,  derived 
the  best  part  of  its  loveliness  from  her  sunny  temper, 
iier  frank  and  ardent  spirit,  her  affectionate  and  gen- 
erous heart.  It  v^^as  the  ever-varying  expression,  an 
expression  which  could  not  deceive,  that  lent  such 
matchless  charms  to  her  glov^'ing  and  animated  coun- 
tenance, and  to  the  round  and  musical  voice,  sweet  as 
the  spoken  voice  of  Maill>ran,  or  the  still  fuller  and 
more  exquisite  tones  of  Mr.  Jordan,  which,  true  to  tlie 
feeling  of  the  moment,  vibrated  alike  to  the  wildest 
gaiety  and  tlie  deepest  pathos.  In  a  word,  the  chief 
beauty  of  Helen  Cameron  was  her  sensibility.  It  v/an 
the  perfume  to  the  rose. 


COUNTRY  LODGINGS.  285 

Tier  little  boy,  horn  just  boforo  his  father's  death, 
and  upon  vvhoni  she  doated,  was  a  niagnincent  ])iece 
of  still  life.  Calm,  plaeid,  dignified,  an  infant  Heron- 
les  for  strengtii  and  fair  proportions,  grave  as  a  judge, 
quiet  as  a  flower,  he  was,  in  pojjit  of  age,  exactly  at 
that  nios<t  delightt'ul  period  when  chiUh-en  are  very 
pleasant  to  look  upon,  and  rcfniiro  no  other  sort  of  no- 
tice whatsoever.  Of  course  tlii.s  stale  of  perfection 
could  not  be  expected  to  continue.  The  young  gen- 
tleman would  soon  aspire  to  the  accomplishments  of" 
walking  and  talking — and  then  1 — but  as  that  hour  of 
turmoil  and  commotion  to  which  his  mamma  looked 
forward  with  ecstacy  was  yet  at  some  months  distance, 
T  contented  myself  with  saying  of  master  Arf;hy,  with 
considerably  less  than  the  usual  falsehood,  that  which 
everybody  does  say  of  only  children,  that  lie  was  the 
tinest  baby  that  was  ever  seen. 

We  met  almost  every  day.  Mrs.  Cameron  was  nev- 
er weary  of  driving  about  our  beautiful  lanes  in  her 
little  pony-carriage,  and  usually  called  upon  us  in  her 
way  home,  we  being  not  merely  lier  oldest,  but  almost 
her  only  friends  ;  for,  lively  and  social  as  was  her  tem- 
per, there  was  a  little  touch  of  shyness  about  her. 
which  induced  her  rather  to  shun  than  to  covet  the 
company  of  strangers.  And  indeed  the  cheerfulness 
of  temper,  and  activity  of  mind,  which  made  her  sn 
charming  an  acquisition  to  a  small  circle,  rendered 
her  independent  of  general  society.  Busy  as  a  bee. 
sportive  as  a  butterfly,  she  passed  the  greater  part  of 
her  time  in  the  open  air,  and  having  cauglit  from  mo 
that  very  contagious  and  engrossing  passion,  a  love  of 
floriculture,  had  actually  undertaken  the  operation  of 
restoring  the  old  garden  at  the  Court — a  coppice  of 
brambles,  thistles,,  and  weeds  of  every  description, 
mixed  with  flowering  shrubs  and  overgrown  fruit-trees 
— to  something  like  its  original  order.  Tlie  farmer,  to 
be  sure,  had  abandoned  the  job  in  despair,  contenting 
himself  v.ith  growing  his  cabbaf^es  and  potatoes  in  a 
24 


28G  COUNTRY  LODGINGS. 

field  hard  h}'.  But  she  was  certain  that  she  and  her 
maid  Martlia,  and  the  boy  Bill,  vvlio  looked  after  her 
pony,  would  weed  the  paths,  and  fill  the  flower-borders 
in  no  time.  We  should  see  ;  I  had  need  take  g-ood 
care  of  my  reputation,  for  she  meant  her  garden  to 
beat  mine. 

AVhat  progress  Helen  and  her  forces,  a  shatter-brain 
boy  who  did  not  know  a  violet  from  a  nettle,  and  Lon- 
don-bred  girl  who  had  hardly  seen  a  rose-bush  in  her 
life,  would  have  made  in  clearing  this  forest  of  under- 
wood, might  easily  be  foretold.  Accident,  however, 
that  frequent  favorer  of  bold  projects,  came  to  her  aid 
in  the  shape  of  a  more  efficient  coadjutor. 

Late  one  evening,  the  fair  Helen  arrived  at  our  cot- 
tage with  a  face  of  unwonted  gravity.  Mrs.  Davies 
(her  landlady)  had  used  her  very  ill.  She  had  taken 
the  west  wing  in  total  ignorance  of  there  being  other 
apartments  to  let  at  the  court,  or  she  would  have  se- 
cured  them.  And  now  a  new  lodger  had  arrived,  had 
actually  taken  possession  of  two  rooms  in  the  centre 
of  the  house  ;  and  Martha,  who  had  seen  him,  said  he 
was  a  young  man,  and  a  handsome  man — and  she  her. 
self  a  yonng  woman  unprotected  and  alone  I — It  was 
awkward,  very  awkward  I  Was  it  not  very  awkward? 
What  was  she  to  do  ? 

Nothing  could  be  done  tliat  night ;  so  far  was  clear  ; 
but  we  praised  her  prudence,  promised  to  call  at  Upton 
the  next  day,  and  if  necessary,  to  speak  to  this  new 
lodger,  who  might  after  all  be  not  very  formidable  ; 
and,  quite  relieved  by  the  vent  which  she  had  given 
to  her  scruples,  she  departed  in  her  usual  good  spirits. 

Early  the  next  morning  she  re-appeared.  "She 
would  not  have  the  nev.'  lodger  disturbed  for  the  world  ! 
He  was  a  Pole.  One,  doubtless,  of  those  unfortunate 
exiles.  He  had  told  Mrs.  Davies  that  he  was  a  Polish 
gentleman,  desirous  chiefly  of  good  air,  cheapness, 
and  retirement.  Be;/ond  a  doubt,  he  was  one  of  those 
unhappy  fugitives.     He  looked  grave,  and   pale,  and 


COU^■TRY  LODGINGS.  287 

thoughlful,  quite  like  a  hero  of  romanec.  Besides,  he 
was  the  very  person  who,  a  week  before,  had  eaught 
hold  of  the  reins  when  that  little  restive  pony  had  tak- 
en fright  at  the  baker's  cart,  and  nearly  backed  Bill 
and  herself  into  the  gravel-pit  on  Lanton  common.  Bill 
had  entirely  lost  all  command  over  the  pony,  and  but 
for  the  stranger's  presence  of  mind,  she  did  not  know 
what  would  liave  become  of  them.  Surely  I  must  re- 
member her  telling  me  the  circumstance.  Besides, 
he  was  unfortunate  I  He  was  poor  1 — he  was  an  exile  1 
She  would  not  be  the  means  of  driving  him  from  the 
asylum  which  he  had  chosen,  for  all  the  world  ! — "  No, 
not  for  all  my  geraniums  I" — an  expression  which  is 
by  no  means  the  anti-climax  that  it  seems — for,  in  the 
eyes  of  a  florist,  an  enthusiast,  and  a  woman,  what  is 
this  rusty  fusty  dusty  musty  bit  of  earth,  called  the 
world,  compared  to  a  stand  of  bright  flowers  ? 

And  finding,  upon  inquiry,  that  M.  Choynovv'ski  (so 
he  called  himself)  had  brought  a  letter  of  recommend- 
ation from  a  respectable  London  tradesman,  and  that 
there  was  cA'cry  appearance  of  his  bfiug,  as  our  fair 
young  friend  had  conjectured,  a  foreigner  in  distress, 
my  father  not  only  agreed  that  it  would  be  a  cruel  at- 
tcmjjt  to  drive  him  from  his  new  home,  (a  piece  of  ty- 
ranny which,  even  in  this  land  of  freedom,  might,  I 
suspect,  have  been  managed  in  the  form  of  an  offer  of 
double  rent,  by  that  grand  despot,  money,  but  resolved 
to'  offer  the  fjw  attentions  in  our  poor  power,  to  one 
whom  every  look  and  word  proclaimed  to  be,  in  the 
largest  scn.se  of  the  word,  a  gentleman. 

My  father  had  seen  him,  not  on  his  visit  of  inquiry, 
but,  Oil  a  few  days  after,  billhook  in  hand,  hacking 
away  manfully  at  the  briers  and  brambles  of  the  gar- 
den. My  first  view  of  him,  was  in  the  position  even 
less  romantic,  assisting  a  Belford  tradesman  to  put  up 
a  stove  in  the  nursery. 

One  of  Mrs.  Cameron's  few  causes  of  complaint  in 
her  country  lodgings,  had  been  the  tendency  to  smoke 


283  COUNTRY  LODGINGS. 

ill  that  iiuportant  apartment.  We  all  know  that, 
when  those  two  subtle  essences,  smoke  and  wind,  once 
come  to  do  battle  in  a  wide,  open  chimney,  the  invisi- 
ble agent  is  pretty  sm-e  to  have  the  best  of  tlie  day,  and 
to  drive  his  vapory  enemy  at  full  speed  before  hhn. 
M.  Choynowski,  who  by  this  time  had  established  a 
gardening  acquaintance,  not  mercl}''  with  Bill  and 
Martha,  but  with  their  fair  mistress,  happening  to  see 
her,  one  windy  evening,  in  a  paroxysm  of  smoky  dis- 
tress, not  merely  recommended  a  stove,  after  the  fash- 
ion of  the  northern  nations'  notions,  but  immediately 
walked  into  Belford  to  give  his  own  orders  to  a  re- 
spectable  ironmonger ;  and  they  were  in  the  act  of 
erecting  this  admirable  accessary  to  warmth  and  com- 
fort (really  these  words  are  synonymous)  when  I  hap- 
pened to  call. 

I  could  hardly  have  seen  him  under  circumstances 
better  calculated  to  display  his  intelligence,  his  deli- 
cacy, or  his  good  breeding.  The  patience,  gentleness, 
and  kind  feelinfj,  with  which  he  contriA'cd  at  once  to 
excuse  and  to  remedy  certain  blunders  made  by  the 
workmen  in  the  execution  of  his  orders,  and  the  clear- 
ness with  which,  ia  perfectly  correct  and  idiomatic 
English,  slightly  tinged  with  a  foreign  accent,  he  ex- 
plained the  mechanical  and  scientific  reasons  for  the 
construction  he  had  suggested,  gave  evidence  at  once 
of  no  common  talent,  and  of  a  considerateness  and 
good  nature  in  its  exercise  more  valuable  than  all  the 
talent  in  the  world.  If  trifling  and  cvery-day  occur- 
rences afford,  as  I  believe  they  do,  the  surest  and 
safest  indications  of  character,  we  could  have  no  hesi- 
tation in  pronouncing  upon  the  amiable  qualities  of  M. 
Choynowski. 

In  person,  he  was  tall  and  graceful,  and  very  noble- 
looking.  His  head  was  particularly  intellectual,  and 
there  was  a  calm  sweetness  about  the  mouth  that  was 
singularly  prepossessing.  Helen  had  likened  him  to  a 
hero  of  romance.     In  my  eyes,  he  bore  much  more 


COUNTRY  LOGGINGS.  289 

plainly  the  stamp  of  a  man  of  fashion,  of  thai  very 
highest  fashion  which  is  too  refined  for  finery,  too 
full  of  self-respect  for  affectation.  Simple,  natural, 
mild,  and  gracious,  the  gentle  reserve  of  his  manner 
added,  under  ihe  circumstances,  to  the  interest  which 
he  inspired.  Somewhat  of  that  reserve  continued  even 
after  our  acquaintance  had  ripened  into  intimacy. 
He  never  spoke  of  his  own  past  history,  or  future  pros, 
pects,  shuinied  all  political  discourse,  and  was  with 
difficulty  drawn  into  conversation  upon  the  scenery 
and  manners  of  the  north  of  Europe.  He  seemed 
afraid  of  the  subject. 

Upon  general  topics,  whether  of  literature  or  art, 
he  was  remarkably  open  and  candid.  He  possessed, 
in  an  eminent  degree,  the  talent  of  acquiring  Ian- 
guages  for  which  his  countrymen  are  distinguished, 
and  had  made  the  best  use  of  tliosc  keys  of  knowledge. 
I  have  never  met  with  any  person  whose  mind  was 
more  richly  cultivated,  or  who  was  more  calculated  to 
adorn  the  highest  station.  And  here  he  was  wasting 
life  in  a  secluded  village  in  a  foreign  country  1  Whal 
would  become  of  him  after  his  present  apparently 
slender  resources  should  be  exhausted,  was  painful  to 
imagine.  The  more  ])ainful,  that  the  accidental  dis. 
covery  of  the  direction  of  a  letter  had  disclosed  his 
former  rank.  It  was  part  of  an  envelope  addressed, 
"  A  Monsieur  Monsieur  le  Comte  Choynowski,"  and 
left  as  a  mark  in  a  book,  all  except  the  name  being 
torn  off*.  But  the  fact  needed  no  confirmation.  All 
his  habits  and  ways  of  thinking  bore  marks  of  high 
station.     What  would  become  of  him? 

It  was  but  too  evident  that  another  calamity  was 
impending  over  the.  unfortunate  exile.  Although  m-st 
discreet  in  word  and  guarded  in  manner,  every  action 
bespoke  his  devotion  to  his  lovely  fellow-inmate.  Her 
v.-ishes  were  his  law.  His  attentions  to  her  little  boy, 
were  such  as  young  men  rarely  show  to  infanta  except 
for  love  of  the  mother  ;  and  the  garden,  that  garden 
24* 


290  COUNTRY  LODGINGS. 

abandoned  t^hice  ihe  memory  of  man,  (lor  the  Court, 
;)rcvious  to  the  arrival  of  the  present  tenant,  liad  been 
for  years  unmhabited.)  was,  under  his  exertions  and 
superintendence,  rapidly  assuming  an  aspect  of  luxu- 
riance  and  order.  It  was  not  impossible  but  Helen 
might  realise  her  playful  vaunt,  and  beat  me  in  my 
ov.'n  art  after  all. 

John  (our  gardening  lad)  was  near  being  jealous  as 
possible,  and,  considering  the  estuuation  in  which  John 
is  known  to  hold  our  doings  in  the  flower  way,  such 
jealousy  must  be  accepted  as  the  most  flattering  testi- 
mony to  his  rival's  success.  To  go  beyond  our  gar- 
den was,  in  John's  opinion,  to  be  great  indeed  I 

Every  thought  of  the  Count  Choynovrski  was  en- 
grossed by  the  fair  Helen ;  and  we  sav/,  with  some 
anxiety,  that  she  in  her  turn  was  but  too  sensible  of 
his  attentions,  and  that  every  thing  belonging  to  his 
country  assumed  in  her  eyes  an  absorbing  importance. 
She  sent  to  London  for  all  the  books  that  could  be  ob- 
tained respecting  Poland  ;  ordered  all  the  journals 
that  interested  themselves  in  that  interesting  though 
apparently  hopeless  cause  ;  turned  liberal, — she  "who 
had  been  reared  in  the  lap  of  conservatism,  and  Avhom 
my  father  used  laughingly  tu  call  the  little  Tory  ; — 
turned  Radical,  turned  Republican, — for  she  far  out- 
soared  the  moderate  doctrines  of  whiggism  in  her  po- 
litical flights  ;  denounced  the  Emperor  Nicholas  as  a 
tyrant ;  spoke  of  the  Russians  as  a  nation  of  savages  ; 
and  in  spite  of  the  evident  uneasiness  v/ith  which  the 
Polish  exile  listened  to  any  allusion  to  the  wrongs  of 
his  country,  for  he  never  mingled  in  such  discussions, 
omitted  no  opportunity  of  proving  her  spmpathy  by  de- 
claring with  an  animation  and  vehemence,  as  becoming 
as  anything  so  like  scolding  well  could  be,  against  the 
cruelty  and  wickedness  of  the  oppressors  of  that  most 
unfortunate  of  nations. 

It  was  clear  that  the  peace  of  both  was  endangered, 
perhaps  gone  1  and  that  it  had  become  the  painful  du- 


COUNTRY  LODGLXGS.  291 

t.y  of  friends]  lip  to  awaken  tlicia  from  tlieir  t-co-bcwitch. 
iiig  dream. 

We  had  made  an  excursion,  on  one  sunny  summer'.^ 
day,  as  far  as  the  EverJey  Hills.  Helen,  always  im- 
passioned, had  been  wrought  into  a  passionate  recol- 
lection of  her  own  native  country,  by  the  sight  of  the 
heather  just  bursting  into  its  purple  bloom  ;  and  M. 
Cho3niowski,  usually  so  self-possessed,  had  beeti  be- 
trayed into  the  expression  of  a  kindred  feeling  by  the 
delicious  odor  of  the  fir  plantations,  which  served  to 
transport  him  in  imagination  to  the  balm-breathing 
forests  of  the  North.  This  sympathy  was  a  new,  and 
a  strong  bond  of  union  between  two  spirits  but  too 
congenial ;  and  I  determined  no  longer  to  defer  in- 
forming tlie  gentleman,  in  whose  honor  I  placed  the 
most  implicit  reliance,  of  the  peculiar  position  of  our 
fair  friend. 

Detaining  him,  therefore,  to  coffee,  (we  had  taken 
an  early  dinner  in  the  fir  grove,)  and  sufi^ering  Helen 
to  go  home  to  her  little  boy,  1  contrived,  by  leaving 
the  conversation  to  cajirieious  wills,  to  communicate 
to  him,  as  if  accidentally,  the  fact  of  her  forfeiting  her 
whole  income  in  the  event  of  a  second  marriage.  He 
listened  v/ith  grave  attention. 

"  Is  she  also  deprived,"  inquired  he,  "  of  the  guar- 
dianship  of  her  child  ?" 

"  No.  But  as  the  sum  allowed  for  his  maintenance 
is  also  to  cease  from  the  day  of  her  nuptials,  and  the 
money  to  accumulate  until  he  is  of  age,  she  would,  by 
marrying  a  poor  man,  do  irreparable  injury  to  her  son, 
by  cramping  his  education.     It  is  a  grievous  restraint." 

He  made  no  answer.  After  two  or  three  attempts 
at  conversation,  which  his  mind  v.as  too  completely 
pre-occupied  to  sustahi,  he  bade  us  good  night,  and 
returned  to  the  Court. 

The  next  morning  we  heard  that  he  had  left  Upton, 
and  gone,  they  said,  to  Oxford.     And  I  could  not  help 


292  COU.NTKY  LODGINGSi 

hoping  that  he  had  seen  his  danger,  and  would  not  re^ 
turn  until  the  peril  was  past. 

I  was  mistaken.  In  two  or  three  days  he  returned, 
exhibiting  less  self-command  than  I  had  been  led  to 
anticipate.  The  fair  lady,  too,  1  took  occasion  to  re- 
mind of  this  terrible  will,  in  hopes,  since  he  w'ould  not 
go,  that  she  would  have  had  the  wisdom  to  have  taken 
her  departure. 

No  such  thing  ;  neither  party  would  move  a  jot.  I 
might  as  well  have  bestow^ed  my  counsel  upon  the  two 
stone  figures  on  the  great  gateway.  And  heartily  sor- 
ry,  and  a  little  angry,  I  resolved  to  let  matters  take 
their  own  course. 

Several  weeks  passed  on,  when  one  morning  she 
came  to  me  in  the  sweetest  confusion,  the  loveliest 
mixture  of  bashfulness  and  joy. 

"  He  loves  me  !"  she  said ;  "he  has  told  me  that  he 
loves  me  I" 

"Well?" 

"  And  I  have  referred  him  to  you.     That  clause  — " 

"He  already  knows  it."  And  then  1  told  her,  word 
for  word,  what  had  passed. 

"  He  knows  of  that  clause,  and  he  still  wishes  to 
marry  me  I  He  loves  me  for  mytelfl  Loves  me, 
knowing  me  to  be  a  beggar  I  It  is  true,  pure,  disin. 
terested  affection  1" 

"Beyond  all  doubt  it  is.  And  if  you  could  live  up- 
on  true  love ■" 

"  Oh,  but  where  that  exists,  and  youth,  and  health, 
and  strength,  and  education,  may  we  not  be  well  con- 
tent to  try  to  earn  a  living  together  ? — think  of  the 
happiness  comprised  in  that  word  1  I  could  give  Ics- 
sons ; — I  am  sure  that  I  could.  I  would  teach  music, 
and  drawing,  and  dancing — anything  for  him  1  or  we 
could  keep  a  school  here  at  Upton — anywhere  with 
himl" 

"  And  I  am  to  tell  him  this  ?" 


COLWTKY  LOLGlISb::.  293 

''  Not  the  words  I"  replied  she,  blubhing  like  a  roae 
at  her  own  cariieslucss  ;  "  not  those  words  I" 

Of  course,  it  was  not  very  long  before  M.  Ic  Comtc 
made  his  appearance. 

"  God  bic&s  her,  noble,  generous  creature  I"  cried  he, 
when  I  had  fulhlled  my  commission.  "  God  for  ever 
bless  her  1" 

"  And  you  intend,  to  take  her  at  her  word,  and  set 
np  school  together  ?"  exclaimed  I,  a  little  provoked  at 
his  unscrupulous  acceptance  of  her  proffered  sacrfice. 
"  You  really  intend  to  keep  a  lady's  boarding-school 
here  at  the  Court?" 

"  I  intend  to  take  her  at  her  word,  most  certainly," 
replied  he,  very  composedly  ;  "  but  I  should  like  to 
know,  my  good  friend,  what  has  put  it  into  her  head, 
and  into  yours,  that  if  Helen  marries  me  she  must 
needs  earn  her  own  living  ?  Suppose  I  should  tell 
you,"  continued  he,  smiling,  "  that  my  father,  one  of 
the  richest  of  the  Polish  nobility,  was  a  favorite  friend 
of  the  Emperor  Alexander  ;  that  the  Emperor  Nicho- 
las continued  to  me  the  kindness  which  his  brother 
had  shown  to  my  father,  and  that  I  thought,  as  he 
had  done,  (gratitude  and  personal  attachment  apart,) 
that  I  could  better  serve  my  country,  and  more  effect- 
ually ainelioratc  the  condition  of  my  tenants  and  vas- 
sals, by  submitting  to  the  Russian  government,  than 
by  a  hopeless  struggle  for  national  independence  ? 
Suppose  that  I  were  to  confess,  that  chancing  in  the 
course  of  a  three  years'  travel  to  walk  through  this 
pretty  village  of  yours,  I  saw  Helen,  and  could  not 
rest  until  I  had  seen  more  of  her  ; — supposing  all  this, 
would  you  pardon  the  deception,  or  rather  the  allow- 
ing you  to  deceive  yourselves  ?  Oh,  if  you  could  but 
imagine  how  deliglitful  it  is  to  a  man,  upon  whom  the 
humbling  conviction  has  been  forced,  that  his  society 
is  courted  and  his  alliance  sought  for  the  accidents  of 
rank  and  fortune,  to  feel  that  he  is,  for  once  in  his  life, 
honestly  liked,  fervently  loved  for  himself,  such  ao  he 


294  COUNTRY  LODGINGS. 

is,  liis  own  very  self, — if  you  could  but  fancy  how 
proud  he  is  of  such  friendship,  how  happy  in  such  love, 
you  would  pardon  him,  I  am  sure  you  vrould  ;  you 
would  never  have  the  heart  to  be  angry.  And  nov/ 
that  the  Imperial  consent  to  a  foreign  union — the  gra- 
cious consent  for  which  I  so  anxiously  waited  to  au. 
thorize  my  proposals  —  has  at  length  arrived,  do  you 
think,"  added  the  count,  with  some  seriousness,  "  that 
there  is  any  chance  of  reconciling  this  dear  Helen  to 
my  august  master  ?  or  will  she  continue  a  rebel  ?" 

At  this  question,  so  gravely  put,  I  laughed  outright. 
"  Why  really,  my  dear  count,  I  cannot  pretend  to  an- 
swer decidedl}'  for  the  turn  that  the  affair  might  take  ; 
but  my  impression — to  speak  in  the  idiomatic  English, 
more  racy  than  elegant,  which  you  pique  yourself  upon 
understanding — my  full  impression  is,  that  Helen  hav. 
ing  for  no  reason  upon  eartli  but  her  interest  in  you, 
raited  from  Conservatism  to  Radicalism,  she  will,  for 
the  same  cause,  lose  no  time  in  ratling  back  again. 
A  woman's  politics,  especially  if  she  be  a  young  wo. 
man,  are  generally  the  result  of  feeling  rather  than  of 
opinion,  and  our  fair  friend  strikes  me  as  a  most  un- 
likely subject  to  form  an  exception  to  the  rule.  How- 
ever, if  you  doubt  my  authority  in  this  matter,  you 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  inquire  at  the  fountain-head. 
There  she  sits,  in  the  arbor.     Go  and  ask." 

And  before  the  words  were  well  spoken,  the  lover, 
radiant  with  happiness,  was  at  the  side  of  his  beloved. 


29rj 


TO  HIS  OxRAXGE  TRCE. 

BY  MRS.  GORE. 

'■  Count  DemidofT,  being  at  Rome  in  the  year  I'llS.  dis- 
covered in  the  convent  garden  of  the  Agostini  del  Corso, 
an  Orange  Tree  of  prodigious  size.  The  monks  declined 
parting  with  it;  and  the  count  was  obliged  to  employ 
much  money  and  influence  to  determine  them  to  consent 
to  its  removal.  They  were  finally  induced  to  accept  his 
overtures;  and  the  tree,  which  was  planted  in  the  open 
air,  v.-as  taken  up  with  an  immense  ball  of  earth,  placed  in 
a  case  on  wheels  constructed  for  the  purpose,  and  thus 
conveyed  from  Rome  to  Moscow." — Dele.vze. 

Banished — uptorn — sent  rudely  forth 

To  wither  in  an  alien  land, 
Where  in  yon  desolating  north 

The  torpid  deserts  chill  expand  ; 
Thou  veteran  of  centuries — 

Thou  TREE  I — whose  golden  hours  have  thriven 
Beneath  these  genial,  sunlit  skies — 

This  high  o'erarching  vault  of  heaven, 
Go  !  faithful  to  thine  Italy, 
In  icy  exile  pine  and  die  I 

Here,  in  this  cloister's  solitude, 

Safe  from  the  jarring  world's  alarms, 
From  mountain  tempests,  raging  rude, 

From  strife  of  tongues,  or  clang  of  arms  ; 
Here,  when  in  twilight,  musing,  slow, 

Our  sandalled  feet  unechoing  move- 
Nought  but  the  sepulchre  below — 

Nought  but  Eternity  above  ; 
How  softly  o'er  thy  vernal  head  ^P^ 

Have  silent  vcars  their  blossoms  shed  ' 


296 

The  distant  chant, — the  vesper  hymn — 

The  orjran's  solemn  voice  of  prayer, 
Sweeping  thy  leaves  subdued  and  dim, 

Dispersed  their  sweetness  to  the  air  ; 
Henceforth,  the  world's  unhallowed  cries — 

The  ruffian's  threat. — the  maniac's  scream- 
Taunts — treasons — tortures — blasphemies 

Will  rouse  tliee  from  thy  jrentle  dream  ; 
That  dream  of  soft  imaginings, 
When  angels  fanned  thee  with  thy  wings. 

This  for  thyself,  oh  !  blessed  one  I 

For  me — for  me — to  whom  thou  wert 
The  dewdrop  on  the  desert's  stone — 

The  sunbeam  on  a  blighted  heart ; 
The  promise  of  a  higher  sphere — 

In  bliss  and  beauty  bright  as  thine  ; 
Something  that  whispered  patience  here. 

Something  that  augured  joys  divine  : 
How  shall  I  bear,  when  thou  art  gone. 
The  earth  thy  shadow  fell  upon  ! 

Without  thy  bloom,  thy  gold-orbed  fruit. 

To  grace  each  season's  passing  prime. 
O  !  how  shall  life  its  records  suit 

To  the  old  calendar  of  time  ! — 
How — of  thy  gelid  shade  bereft, 

How — plundered  of  thy  shedding  fiowers. 
Shall  I  endure  my  penance, — left 

To  count  my  solitary  hours 
By  sighs  in  hopeless  sadness  sent 
Unto  thy  frozen  banishment ! 

O  tree  of  life  ! — O  tree  of  love  ! 

What  parting  pledge  can  I  bestow 
Thy  memory  of  the  past  to  move, 

Far  in  yon  wilderness  of  snow  ? 


MARCH  OF  THE  ANCIENT  BRITONS.  291 

My  tears  I — my  blessing ! — precious  tree : 
Bear  them  like  dewdrops  pure  and  bright, — 

Bear  them,  like  murmurs  of  the  bee, 
A  token  to  the  Muscovite  ; 

How  dear  thou  art  to  those  who  dwell 

In  thine  own  land.     Farewell  I — farewell  1 


BY  MRS.  CRAWFORD. 

Sons  of  the  mountain  heroes  I 
Wing  the  arrow,  wield  the  brand, 
And  save  your  native  land  ; 
Invoking  souls  of  deathless  fame, 
On  to  the  fight  I  with  hearts  of  flame, 
And  fired  by  high  Llevrellyn's  name. 
The  tyrant's  power  withstand  I 

Shades  of  the  mountain  heroes  I 
Hover  o'er  the  field  of  wo  I 
And  bless  the  avenging  blow  I 
As  stars  within  their  distant  spheres, 
To  man's  adoring  eyes  appear. 
All  shining  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Look  from  your  hills  of  snow  I 

Sons  of  the  mountain  heroes  I 

Rise  like  whirlwinds  in  your  might ! 

Be  gods,  and  win  the  fight  I 
Our  freedom  and  our  hearths  to  keep. 
Let  every  vein  in  Cambria  weep ; 
Up,  soldiers  I  to  the  mountain  steep  I 

St.  David  and  our  right  I 

25 


BY  THE  HON.  AUGUSTA  NORTON,'. 

"  Why  did  she  love  him  ? — Curious  fool,  be  still ' 
Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ?'' 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Caroline  St.  Clair,  starl- 
ing sudddenly  from  her  seat,  and  pacing  her  room 
with  hurried  steps  ;  "  it  is  very  strange  I  cannot  learn 
to  love  Lord  Frederick  Fitzraaurice  ;  the  perfection 
of  every  thing  one  could  wish  for,  as  every  body  says  ; 
handsome,  rich,  talented,  amiable  I — and  it  is  equally 
strange,  and  alas  !  not  less  true,  that  I  cannot  help 
loving  Charles  Moray,  whom  nobody  seems  to  think 
has  anything  particular  to  recommend  him.  It  is  true 
his  strange  manner  is  rather  against  him  ;  but  then, 
though  he  seems  cold,  and  almost  indifferent  to  other 
people,  he  is  never  so  to  me  ;  and  this,  in  my  vain  eyes, 
is  just  an  additional  reason  for  liking  him. 

"  The  sun  shines  bright  when  all 's  awake. 
On  earth  and  o'er  the  deep  ; 
I  like  the  moon  which  shines  on  mc 
When  all  the  v/orld's  asleep  !'' 

"  Still,  thougli  they  are  much  too  indulgent  to  press 
It,  I  know  my  father  and  mother  wish  me  to  marry 
Lord  Frederick,  and  that  consideration  ought  to  out- 
weigh my  wayward  predilection  for  Charles.  I  also 
know  that  could  my  proud  father  see  his  darling  daugh- 
ter's heart  laid  bare  before  him — did  he  but  suspect  the 
passion  she  is  cherishing  there — it  would  bring  his  gray 
hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave ;  and  this  consideration 
ought — not  only  to  make  me  hate  that  passion,  but 
feel  indifferent  to  its  object;  and  yet,"  she  continued, 
and  she  shook  her  head  mournfully  as  she  spoke,   "  I 


LOVE  AND  VANITY.  299 

cannot  subdue  it ;  it  has  gained  a  place  in  my  ver}' 
soul,  too  strong,  my  conscience  tells  me,  for  any  human 
affection  to  hold  there,  and  I  must  submit  to  its  control. 
Still  my  family  need  not  fear" — and  unconsciously  she 
walked  more  proudly  through  the  room, — "If  Care- 
line  St.  Clair  cannot  make  passion  3'^ield  to  principle, 
she  will  at  least  be  the  only  sufferer  herself;  if  she 
cannot  make  her  father  and  mother  happy  by  marry- 
ing Lord  Frederick,  the  object  of  their  choice,  she  will 
not  make  them  miserable  by  uniting  herself  to  any  one 
against  their  inclinations.  No,  no  !  mine  alone  be  the 
misery,  the  proper  penalty  of  encouraging  a  love  which 
my  reason  tells  me  to  be  wrong.  But,"  she  continued, 
after  a  pause,  my  unhappiness  will  not  be  the  only 
fruit  of  that  encouragement ;  at  least,  if  Charles  loves 
me  as  I  love  him,  he  will  be  miserable  too,  when  he 
finds  that  our  love  is  hopeless,  and  can  only  be  in- 
dulged in  at  the  expense  of  my  father's  curse  ;  and  to 
be  the  cause  of  misery  to  Charles  is  more  than  I  could 
bear.  Oh  !"  she  passionately  exclaimed,  throwing  her- 
self on  a  sofa,  and  burying  her  face  in  her  hands ;  "bet- 
ter marry  Lord  Frederick  than  this  I  It  may  be  still 
time  to  save  Charles  ;  he  has  never  said  he  loves  me — 
perhaps  he  does  not ;  and  v/ere  I  another's,  his  better 
principle  would  soon  enable  him  to  get  over  any  little 
predilection  he  may  now  feel  for  me.  Though  I  can- 
not loce  Lord  Frederick,  I  could  at  least  be  a  good 
wife.  I  think  I  know  what  constitutes  that.  I  would 
endure  every  thing,  try  every  thing;  in  sickness  I 
would  watch  over  him,  in  sorrow  sympathise  with 
him  ;  but  then,"  and  she  shuddered  as  the  idea  came 
over  her — "  should  a  thought  of  Charles  steal  across 
me,  how  I  should  hate  myself  I  Oh,  how  could  I,  with 
my  affections  fixed  on  another,  look  in  my  hushand's 
face  and  smile  I  No,  no,  no,  that  were  impossible  ! 
And  yet  what  to  do  ?  the  post  hour  approaches,  and 
my  father  says  I  must  write  definitively  to  Lord  Fred- 
erick to-day.     Oh  for  one  friend   in  the  wide  world 


300  LOVE  AND  VANITY. 

whose  opinion  I  might  ask,  whose  opinion  I  could  fol- 
low I  But,"  she  exclaimed,  as  a  sudden  idea  seemed  to 
strike  her,  "  I  have  such  a  friend  ;  one  whose  advice  I 
have  often  asked,  and  always  followed — and  that  friend 
is  Charles.  Yes,  I  am  resolved  what  to  do  ;  I  know 
he  is  in  the  library  just  now  ;  I  will  go  to  him,  tell  him 
of  Lord  Frederick's  unfortunate  fancy  for  me,  my  fa- 
mily's more  unfortunate  wishes  on  the  subject,  and  ask 
him  what  I  am  to  do.  I  shall  discover  whether  he 
loves  me  or  not — if  he  Joes,  no  power  on  earth  shall 
induce  me  to  accept  Lord  Frederick — if  he  does  not, 
for  my  father's  and  mother's  sake,  I  will  sacrifice  my. 
self,  and  marry  him." 

So  reasoned  Caroline,  the  only  child  of  Sir  John  and 
Lady  St.  Clair,  and  having  arrived  at  this  extraordi- 
nary conclusion,  to  the  library  she  forthwith  proceed- 
ed. She  found  Charles  Moray  reading,  and  laying 
her  hand  gently  on  his  shoulder,  apologized  for  inter- 
rupting his  studies. 

"  You  never  interrupt  me,  Caroline,"  he  replied, 
"you  know  you  do  not ;  so  sit  down,  and  tell  me  what 
you  want." 

"  Your  advice,  dear  Charles ;  it  is  on  rather  a 
strange  subject,  but  there  is  no  other  unprejudiced 
person  to  whom  I  can  apply." 

"  My  best  advice  you  shall  have  ;  but  do  not  be  too 
sure  I  am  unprejudiced  ;  for  I  fear  the  best  of  us  are 
only  so  when  we  take  no  interest  in  the  point  in  ques. 
tion  ;  and  this  you  know,  Caroline,  is  not  very  likely 
to  be  the  case  when  you  are  my  client." 

Caroline  blushed  slightly  at  the  implied  compliment, 
and  seating  herself  in  a  window  opposite,  so  that  she 
could  study  his  expression  without  herself  being  ex- 
posed to  a  like  scrutiny,  she  began  to  state  her  case. 

He  listened  with  deep  attention,  nor  could  Caroline 
discover  the  slightest  emotion  which  betrayed  anything 
beyond  the  brotherly  regard  he  had  always  expressed 
for  her,  until  she  came  to  that  part  of  her  narrative 


LOVE  AND  VANITY.  301 

which  touched  on  lior  own  indifference.  "  And  now, 
Charles,"  she  concluded,  "  here  is  the  puzzling  part  of 
the  affair  ;  I  do  not  love  Lord  Frederick,  I  feel  I  never 
can."  When  he  heard  this  declaration  a  deep  flush  of 
pleasure  suffused  his  usuall}'^  pale  countenance,  and  as. 
Caroline  caught  the  gratified  expression  which  sparkled 
in  his  dark  eyes,  she  felt  almost  certain  he  loved  her. 
It  was  however  but  for  a  moment  he  allowed  his  feel- 
ing  to  get  the  better  of  him,  for  instantly  resuming  his 
former  quiet  manner,  he  replied  to  Caroline's  repeated 
question  as  to  what  she  was  to  do,  with  the  most  per- 
fect calmness.  "Why  if  3-ou  neither  do  love  him,  nor 
ever  can,  I  should  say,  you  ought  not  to  accept  of  him; 
but  I  can  scarce  think  it  possible  for  any  one  to  know 
Lord  Frederick  and  not  to  like  him.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  perfect  characters  I  ever  met  with  ;  and  when 
you  call  to  mind  your  father  and  mother's  wish  to  see 
you  settled,  their  strong  prepossessions  in  his  favor, 
and  how  v.'ell  he  merits  their  high  opinion,  I  should 
think  you  would  not  find  it  very  difficult  to  comply 
with  their  wishes." 

"  From  all  which  I  think  it  would  appear,  Charles, 
that  you  recommend  me  to  marry  him  now,  upon  the 
chance  of  being  able  to  like  him  afterwards.  Well, 
as  it  is  your  advice,  I  shall  make  the  experiment ;"  and 
Caroline  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Nay  Caroline,"  interrupted  Charles,  "  stay  a  lit- 
tle ;  I  don't  think  what  I  said  quite  amounted  to  that. 
It  would  indeed  be  a  fearful  experiment,  and  one  I 
should  not  feel  justified  in  recommending  to  any  one, 
far  less  to  you,  in  whom  I  feel  so  deeply  interested. 
What  I  meant  to  say  was,  that  if  you  knew  Lord 
Frederick  better,- you  would  probably  like  him  better  ; 
and  I  was  going  to  suggest  you  should  ask  a  longer 
delay  before  finally  deciding." 

"  That  would  scarcely  be  honorable,  Charles,"  re- 
plied Caroline,  "because  I  feel  convinced  time  can 
make  no  alteration  in  my  feelings  lov/ards  him  ;  and  I 
25* 


302  LOVE  AND  VANITY. 

respect  myself  and  him  too  much  to  trifle  with  him. 
If  I  marry  him  it  must  be  to  study  resignation  to  my 
fate,  not  with  the  prospect  of  bettering  it ;  and  there- 
fore, if  it  is  to  be  done,  perhaps  the  sooner  I  begin  my 
hard  lesson  the  easier  I  shall  find  it." 

There  was  a  tone  of  melancholy  in  the  voice  in  which 
Caroline  uttered  this  last  sentence  which  nearly  proved 
too  much  for  Charles's  philosophy.  He  longed  to 
throw  himself  at  her  feet,  and  there  breathe  out  the 
confession  of  a  love  he  had  felt  for  her  for  years — a 
love  at  least  as  ardent,  as  exclusive  as  her  own  ;  but 
he  was  so  well  aware  Sir  John  would  consider  him  no 
fit  match  for  his  beautiful  and  talented  daughter,  that 
he  had  kept  this  secret  of  his  heart  locked  up  from  eve- 
ry human  eye,  and  now  he  felt  was  not  the  time  to  dis- 
close it.  "  If,"  he  thought,  "  of  her  own  free  will  and 
accord  she  refuses  Lord  Frederick,  then  with  a  quiet 
conscience  may  I  continue  to  love  her  ;  but  if,  from 
any  hint  of  mine  she  were  induced  to  come  to  that  de- 
termination, never  again  should  I  know  what  peace 
was.  I  know  he  is  every  way  more  worthy  of  her  than 
I  am  ;  and  Heaven  forbid  that  my  own  selfish  wishes 
should  ever  interfere  with  the  chance  of  her  happiness !" 
By  thus  reasoning  with  his  better  feelings,  Charles  was 
enabled  to  resist  a  temptation  which  had  nearly  proved 
too  much  for  him  ;  and  assuring  Caroline  of  his  total 
inability  to  give  an  opinion  on  so  difficult  a  subject, 
he  begged  of  her  to  be  guided  by  her  own  good  sense. 

"  And  is  this  the  result  ?"  she  said,  with  a  bitter 
smile  ;  "  is  this  the  result  of  all  your  researches  after 
that  knowledge  of  the  world  on  which  you  so  much 
pride  yourself,  Charles  ?  Had  you  spent  those  years 
you  have  devoted  to  the  study  of  strangers  in  foreign 
lands,  at  home, — ^you  would  at  least  have  known  more 
of  its  feelings,  and  affections — you  would  perhaps  have 
known  that  at  this  moment  I  am  the  creature  in  the 
world  the  least  likely  to  be  guided  by  my  oion  good 
sense." 


LOVE  AND  VANITY.  303 

"  Perhaps  I  might,  Caroline,"  he  replied,  with  a  tone 
of  deeply  wounded  feeling;  "but,  as  it  is,  you  must 
see  my  inability  to  speak  on  a  subject  I  so  little  under- 
stand. What,  indeed,  can  a  cold  philosophising  in- 
quirer into  the  OMfz^artZ  customs  of /ore/ o-Tzers,  know 
of  the  inward  feeling  of  the  heart  and  home  ?" 

And  yet,  thought  Caroline,  as  a  smile  of  triumph 
passed  over  her  countenance,  never  did  I  feel  no  con- 
vinced of  his  knowledge  of  both  as  at  this  moment. — 
And  it  was  with  a  resolved  step  she  left  the  library, 
and  with  a  lightened  heart  she  wrote  a  polite  refusal 
to  Lord  Frederick. 

It  is  now  time  to  say  a  little  about  Charles  Moray. 
He  was  the  orphan  son  of  an  intimate  friend  of  Sir  John 
St.  Clair,  whose  ward  he  was,  and  to  whose  guardian- 
ship he  had  been  committed  when  still  a  child.  Sir 
John  instantly  took  him  to  his  ovv'n  home,  and  ever 
since  had  acted  the  part  of  a  parent  tov.-ards  him.  He 
was  possessed  of  a  small,  but  what  is  generally  termed, 
an  independent  fortune,  and  was  now  on  a  visit  of  a 
few  months  to  his  guardian,  previous  to  his  taking  up 
his  residence  on  his  ov/n  estate  in  Scotland.  He  was 
aware  of  Lord  Frederick's  attachment  to  Caroline,  and 
had  been  endeavoring  ever  since  his  return  from  the 
continent,  to  school  himself  into  seeing  her  become  the 
wife  of  another  with  some  degree  of  patience.  But 
now  that  he  had  heard  her  declare  her  indifference  to 
him,  and  knew  from  herself  that  she  had  refused  him, 
he  once  more  allowed  himself  to  love  her  ;  and  week 
after  week  stole  away  leaving  jio  trace  behind,  except 
the  record  of  their  increased  affection.  Still,  when 
Caroline  did  pause  to  think — v.-hcn,  for  a  few  moments, 
she  awakened  from  the  dream  wliich  had  taken  such 
strong  possession  of  her,  she  was  not  happy.  Her 
conscience  told  her  she  had  preferred  her  own  gratifi- 
cation to  that  of  her  indulgent  parents;  that  she  was 
encouraging  passion  at  the  expense  of  principle  ;  and 
there  was  a  certain  indistinct  anticipation  of  retribu- 


304  LOVE  AND  VANITY. 

lion  which  would  often  steal  upon  her  in  the  silence  of 
the  night,  and  send  tlie  blood  mantling  to  her  forehead, 
though  there  was  no  human  eye  there  to  witness  it. — 
And  Charlei^,  too,  had  his  hours  of  reflection  and  self- 
accusation.  It  is  strange  how  natural  sophistry  seems 
to  the  mind  of  man;  and  how  often,  by  its  false  rea- 
soning, we  try  to  reconcile  our  conscience  to  what  we 
hnow  to  be  wrong !  But  the  still  small  voice  will  not 
always  be  so  silenced  ;  and  though  Charles  said  to 
himself  and  said  truly,  he  had  never  tried  to  win  Ca- 
roline's affections,  and  had  never  told  her  that  he  loved 
lier,  still  he  kncAv  that  he  had  won  that  confiding 
heart,  and  that  latterly  he  had  taken  no  pains  to  con- 
real  how  completely  that  love  was  returned. 

About  this  time  a  distant  cousin  of  the  St,  Clairs 
came  to  pay  them  a  visit.  She  was  young,  beautiful, 
and  accomplished ;  but  though  her  manner  seem.ed 
artless,  and  her  heart  warm,  she  was  in  fact  cold, 
worldly,  selfish,  vain.  Caroline  had  not  known  Nora 
Vivian  long  enough  to  find  out  her  true  character,  and 
welcomed  her  to  Clair  Park  with  unaffected  pleas- 
ure. Had  she  known — could  she  have  anticipated  the 
viper  she  was  taking  to  her  bosom,  how  different  would 
have  been  her  greeting  I  Miss  Vivian  had  had  macli 
Intercourse  with  the  world,  and  profited  thereby  ;  and 
she  had  not  been  long  in  the  house  with  Charles  and 
Caroline  before  she  discovered  tlie  attachment  which 
subsisted  between  them,  and  determined,  "  pour  passer 
le  temps,"  as  she  expressed  it  in  a  letter  to  a  chosen 
spirit,  to  interrupt  the  course  of  their  "  innocent  affec- 
tion." This  was  the  one  object  of  her  actions  by  day 
and  thoughts  by  night ;  and  for  some  time  she  could 
scarcely  conceal  how  much  her  vanity  was  mortified 
by  the  slow  progress  she  made  in  her  heartless  scheme. 
Caroline  was  so  confident  in  her  own  affection,  so 
confiding  in  Charles's,  that  no  hint  Nora  could  give, 
distinct  or  implied,  ever  gave  lier  any  uneasiness ;  and 
then,  though  always  polite,  Charles's  manner  towards 


LOVE  AND  VANITY.  .305 

her  was  so  cold,  so  distant,  that  she  felt  her  very  pride 
concerned  in  winning  him  from  Caroline.  "  One  smile 
from  that  piece  of  indiflerencc,"  she  said  to  herself  one 
day,  as  she  sat  musing  how  she  was  to  proceed,  "  would 
be  worth  more  in  my  eyes  than  the  adulation  of  a  mul- 
titude— but  how  to  obtain  it  ?  I  see  I  must  alter  my 
plans  ;  and  as  I  cannot  rouse  her  suspicions,  I  must 
try  and  work  upon  his  vanity.  I  will  attract  to  my- 
self by  imperceptible  degrees,  and  in  a  manner  which 
no  polite  person  can  refuse,  all  those  little  attentions 
which  now  are  so  exclusively  her  own — she  will  feel 
this  and  resent  it.  The  vanity  of  woman  has  passed 
into  a  proverb,  but  my  experience  proves  that  of  man  to 
be  greater  ;  therefore  Charles  Moray's  pride  is  hurt  by 
Caroline's  reproachful  manner,  I  will  minister  to  his 
vanity  by  a  thousand  numberless  attentions,  which, 
in  that  hour  of  mortified  affection,  will  be  to  him  like 
sunrise  to  the  benighted  traveller."  We  will  not  stop 
to  follow  Miss  Vivian  through  the  crooked  path  she 
thus  marked  out  for  herself;  sufnce  it  to  say  she  had 
drawn  her  conclusions  from  but  too  intimate  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  human  heart,  and  the  truth  and  accuracy 
of  her  calculations  were  but  too  well  proved  by  the  re- 
sult. 

By  an  appearance  of  great  helplessness  and  depend- 
ence upon  Mr.  Moray's  assistance  and  support,  which 
she  knew  would  gratify  his  pride,  and  which  she  knew 
well  how  to  assume,  Nora  soon  managed  to  usurp  al- 
most the  whole  of  his  attention.  If  they  rode,  she 
was  nervous,  and  though  it  was  dreadfully  selfish  to 
steal  him  from  dear,  dear  Caroline,  still,  if  he  would 
ride  alongside  of  her  horse,  she  would  feel  secure.  If 
they  v/alked,  she  was  sure  to  feel  fatigued  almost  im- 
mediately, and  compelled  to  take  the  arm  Charles  was 
so  polite  as  to  offer.  In  the  house  it  was  the  same 
thing  ;  if  she  sung,  Charles  must  take  second  ;  she  was 
foolishly  timid  and  never  could  sing  alone.  If  she 
played,  he  must  turn  the  pages — in  short,  he  was  for- 


306  LOVE  AKB  VANITY. 

ever  by  her  side  ;  and  so  well  did  she  play  her  part, 
that,  at  first,  he  fancied  that,  without  a  great  breach 
of  politeness,  he  could  not  act  otherwise.  By  degrees, 
iiowever,  his  politeness  assumed  a  much  warmer  cha- 
racter ;  he  neglected  Caroline  almost  entirely,  and  at 
last,  much  to  his  own  surprise,  found  himself  despe- 
rately in  love  v%^ith  Miss  Vivian.  It  is  human  nature 
io  feel  neglect,  and  to  resent  it ;  and  Caroline  did  some- 
times feel  mortified  to  see  all  the  attention  once  so  ex- 
clusively her  own,  bestowed  upon  another,  but  she  did 
not  resent  it.  Perhaps,  at  times,  imconsciously  her 
manner  towards  him  w^as  colder  than  it  used  to  be,  but 
that  was  but  a  passing  feeling  of  wounded  vanity  ;  she 
was  too  strong  in  the  strength  of  her  own  attaclur.ent, 
to  allow  any  thing  of  a  serious  suspicion  of  his  to  en- 
ter  her  mind.  Things,  however,  could  not  long  con- 
tinue in  this  state,  and  at  last  her  eyes  were  destined 
to  be  opened. 

Cliarles  had  promised  to  accompany  her  to  a  village 
a  few  miles  off,  to  assist  her  in  fixing  on  a  site  for  a 
cottage  Sir  John  was  anxious  to  have  built  for  an  old 
servant.  She  walked  into  the  drawing-room  one  beau- 
tiful forenoon,  and  asked  him  if  he  was  ready  to  ac- 
company her,  adding,  she  feared  the  distance  was  too 
great  for  Nora  to  walk. 

To  this  Nora  instantly  assented,  but  Charles  made 
no  reply,  and  upon  Caroline  turning  towards  him,  she 
was  surprised  to  see  him  standing  irresolute  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  She  smiled  confidently  on  him, 
and  again  asked  him  if  he  was  ready  to  accompany 
her. 

"  If  to-morrow  would  do  as  well,  Caroline,"  he  re- 
plied, with  some  confusion — "  I  should  be  delighted  to 
escort  you — but  I  have  just  promised  Miss  Vivian  to 
stay  at  home  and  practise  the  duet  we  were  trying 
over  last  night." 

"  Strange,"  thought  Caroline,  "  to  prefer  practising 
a  duet  with  Nora  to  walking  with  me  !"  but,  adding 


LOV£  AND  VANITV.  307 

aioud,  "  Very  well,  Charles,  though  it  is  loo  far  for  inc 
lo  walk  aloiic,  I  can  easily  ride  there,"  she  left  the 
room  ;  before  ^^hc  had  proceeded  many  steps,  she  re- 
membered she  had  forgotten  to  order  her  horses,  and 
returned  to  the  drawing-room,  to  do  so.  She  gently  re- 
opened the  door,  and  found  Charles  leo.ningover  Nora 
at  the  piano,  his  arm,  unforbidden,  thrown  resting 
round  her  waist.  They  started  at  her  approach,  a 
cold  shudder  came  over  Caroline,  and  scarcely  believ- 
ing she  saw  aright,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  those  of 
Charles — they  sank  beneath  her  searching  glance,  and 
in  the  conscious  flush  of  guilt  which  burned  on  his 
brow,  she  read  the  truth.  Caroline  was  a  creature  of 
impulse,  as  we  have  seen ;  she  w'as  sensitive  too,  to  a 
painful  degree,  but  she  was  also  proud  ;  as  the  truth 
first  flashed  upon  her,  she  thought  she  must  have  died 
on  the  spot ;  there  was  a  sickness  of  heart — an  anni- 
hilation of  all  she  cared  about,  of  all  that  made  life 
dear  to  her,  which  nearly  struck  her  to  the  ground  ; 
but  pride  came  to  her  aid,  and  raising  her  eyes  from 
the  carpet,  and  fixing  upon  Charles  a  smile  "  more 
terrible  in  its  reproachlessv.css  than  Gorgon  hideous- 
ness,"  she  said,  with  a  quietness  almost  unnatural,  "  1 
had  forgotten  to  order  my  horses — will  you  ring  and 
do  it  for  mc  ?"  And  then,  without  giving  him  time  to 
answer,  she  v.'alked  composedly  out  of  the  room,  and 
before  Charles  had  time  to  collect  his  tempestuous 
feelings,  he  sav,-^  her  dash  past  the  window  on  her  beau- 
tiful pet,  Selim. 

Poor  Caroline's  ride  was  a  sad  one  ;  there  was  the 
agonising  feelnig  of  misplaced  affection,  of  outraged 
confidence  ;  and  that  still  small  voice,  which  in  her 
happier  hours  had  only  ichiapercd  blame  for  preferrmg 
her  own  happincs:^  to  that  of  her  father  and  mother, 
had  nov/  increased  into  an  accusation  too  loud  for  any 
sophism  to  silence.  Her  brain  was  on  fire,  and  giving 
the  reins  to  her  horse,  she  sought,  by  bodily  exertion, 
to  calm  the  fever  which  raged  within  ;  but  it  would 


303  LOVE  AND  VANITY. 

not  do ;  and  checking  Selim  to  a  walk,  she  bent  her 
head  on  his  mane  and  wept  bitterly. — "And  has  it 
come  to  this  ?"  she  at  last  passionately  exclaimed,  as 
she  slowly  raised  her  head,  and  threw  back  the  long 
dark  ringlets  which  clustered  down  her  burning  cheeks 
— "  has  il  come  to  this — to  tears?  and  does  Caroline 
St.  Clair  weep  because  she  could  not  make  her  passion 
yield  to  principle,  and  because  a  just  and  retributing 
God  has  now  made  the  object  of  her  idolatry  the  in- 
strument of  his  vengeance  ?  1  know" — she  continued, 
as  she  raised  her  tearful  eyes  to  the  clear  smiling  sky — 
"  I  know  if  I  have  inclined  my  heart  to  any  evil  way, 
thou  wilt  not  hear  me — but  now,  in  this  hour  of  agony, 
when  I  pray  to  thee  for  strength  to  tear  that  evil  from 
my  soul,  thou  wilt  not  refuse  thine  aid  to  thine  offend- 
ing, but  suffering  child — Oh,  give  me  strength  patient- 
ly to  endure  what  I  have  but  too  well  deserved.  Ena- 
ble me  to  veil  from  every  eye,  especially  from  his,  the 
desolation  he  has  caused  ;  and  do  thou  enable  me  not 
only  to  endure,  but  to  smile  upon  misfortune,  even  as 
thine  own  clear  sky  smiles  upon  a  v/orld  of  v^icked- 
ness." 

Thus  did  poor  Caroline  try  to  strengthen  herself  for 
the  trial  she  felt  awaiting  her,  but  she  had  received  a 
blow  from  which  sh?  never  recovered,  and  though  she 
struggled  on,  and  even  smiled  on  those  around,  hers 
was  not  the  quiet  smile  of  happiness  ;  it  was  too  bright ; 
too  like  the  lightning's  flash  to  speak  of  peace  within ; 
and  those  who  were  well  versed  in  the  mind's  deep 
philosophy,  might  have  traced  its  meteoric  brightness 
home  to  the  cloud  from  which  it  emanated  ;  its  bright, 
ness  might  have  dazzled,  but  could  not  hide  from 
them  the  darkness  of  its  origin. 

Caroline's  one  aim  and  object  now  seemed  to  be  lo 
conceal,  from  all  around  her,  the  grief  that  was  dc- 
stroying  her.  There  v/crc  times,  indeed,  when  she  al- 
most  wished  Charles  knew  the  agony  she  endured,  that 
something 


LOVi:  AND  VANITV.  309 

blackness  of  liis  ingratitude  ;  but  slic  chased  the  wish 
IVom  her  heart,  as  something  too  lowering,  too  humbling 
to  gain  achnittauce  there.  "  Never,  never,"  she  ex- 
claimed, striking  her  beating  heart,  "  shall  he  see  the 
havoc  he  has  connnitted  here  ;  perhaps  the  time  may 
come  when  a  little  experience  may  make  him/ecZ  iiow 
he  has  outraged  a  heart  that  has  trusted  him,  confided 
in  him,  loved  liim  as  no  other  woman  will  ever  do  again, 
but  never  shall  he  hear  this  from  my  reproaches.  No, 
though  the  struggle  may  hasten  a  death  which  has  al- 
ready begun,  I  will  be  to  him,  in  appearance  at  least, 
the  same  as  1  ever  have  been,"  And  Caroline  acted 
up  to  her  resolves,  v/ith  a  firmness  scarcely  credible. 
She  read  to  her  father,  drove  with  her  mother,  walked 
and  rode  with  Nora  and  Charles  as  before  ;  she  omitted 
no  kindness,  neglected  no  attention,  and,  if  she  ever 
gave  v/ay  to  her  feelings,  it  was  in  the  silent  solitude 
of  her  own  chamber,  or  on  the  neck  of  her  faithful  Se- 
lim. 

It  is  strange  how  blind  are  those  around  us  to  the 
change  from  health  to  sickness,  if  it  be  but  gradual  I 
How,  day  by  day,  the  cheek  may  pale,  the  eye  grow 
dim,  the  strength  decay,  and  none  mark  the  change  I 
And  so  it  was  with  Caroline  ;  none  saw  her  heart  was 
breaking  ;  none  saw  that  she  was  dying  ;  till  she  sunk 
exhausted  beyond  the  chance  of  recovery. 

Several  months  previous  to  this,  Nora  left  Clair 
Park,  and  was  very  soon  followed  by  the  deluded 
Charles,  who  Vv'ent  to  lay  his  heart,  his  fortune,  and 
his  fate  at  her  tiny  feet.  She  started  with  well- 
feigned  surprise,  and  then  having  begged  of  him  to 
rise,  with  a  politeness  that  chilled  him,  she  proceeded 
with  the  utmost  coolness  to  inform  him  that  his  case 
v/as  hopeless ;  that  she  had  been  engaged  for  some 
time  before  she  had  the  pleafuuc  of  his  acquaintance, 
and  that  she  was  to  be  married  to  hio  fortunate  rival 
next  week.  This  was  retributive  ;  but  Charles's  cup 
was  not  yet  full.  Nora  saw  the  wound  she  had  in- 
26 


310  LOVE  A^D  VANITY. 

llicted,  and  with  a  hearllessness  which  but  too  well  ac- 
corded  with  the  rest  of  her  behavior,  she  determined  to 
probe  still  more  deeply,  and  concluded  her  repl}'  to 
Ciiarles  by  saying,  she  never  could  sufficiently  ex- 
press her  regret  at  the  mistake  vvhich  had  occurred, 
but  that  really  she  could  not  understand  how  it  had 
arisen,  for  that,  as  far  as  she  herself  was  concerned, 
she  could  honestly  declare,  her  regard  for  Mr.  Moray 
had  never  amounted  to  any  thing  beyond  that  friend- 
ship which  their  country  intimacy  seemed  to  her  com- 
pletely to  justify,  but  which  she  would  not  have  suf- 
fered herself  to  indulge  in,  had  she  not  seen,  or  fancied 
she  saw,  an  attachment  subsisting  between  himself 
and  Carolhie  St.  Clair,  strong  enough  to  defy  every 
danger." 

Charles's  eyes  were  now  opened,  but  it  was  too  late, 
and  he  hurried  to  the  Continent,  in  solitude  to  brood 
over  that  disappointment,  which  he  felt  he  but  too  well 
deserved.  One  day,  as  he  sat  musing  in  his  room  and 
gazing  listlessly  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  which  lay 
stretched  in  beauty  before^  him,  his  servant  brought 
him  a  letter.  "  From  home,  sir,"  said  he,  as  he  laid  it 
on  the  table,  and  left  the  apartment.  The  word  home 
sounded  strangely  in  Charles's  ear — 

"  I  have  no  home  now,"  he  mentally  exclaimed,  as 
lie  took  the  letter  up. 

"  I  once  had  a  home,  and  friends,  but  now  !  I  am  an 
isolated  being  vrith  none  to  care  for  me,  not  worthy  of 
being  cared  about :" — and  he  opened  the  letter  with  a 
degree  of  apathy  that  seemed  strange  in  one  so  young. 
It  was  from  his  guardian.  Sir  John  St.  Clair,  inform- 
ing hmi,  in  all  the  agony  of  a  fond  father's  heart,  of 
Caroline's  illness.  "  Come  to  us,  dear  Charles," — the 
broken-hearted  old  man  concluded  ; — "  ccome  to  us  in 
this  our  night  of  gloom ;  wc  are  indeed  in  need  of  a 
friend,  and  no  where,  1  am  sure,  could  we  find  so  sin- 
cere a  one  as  yourself."  This  v%  as  indeed  a  severe  blow 
to  Charles  ;  he,  in  a  manner  the  murderer  of  Caroline, 


LOVE  AND  VAXITY.  311 

to  be  written  to  by  her  fatlier  in  this  trusting,  this  con- 
fiding manner  I — it  was  too  much  almost  for  human 
nature  to  bear.  "  I  will  at  least  go,"  lie  exclaimed,  in 
the  torture  of  a  self-accusing  conscience,  "  and  view 
the  wretchedness  my  heartless  vanity  has  occasioned." 
He  rang  the  bell,  and  gave  orders  for  his  instant  de- 
parture, nor  did  ho  halt  by  night  or  by  day,  rmtil  he 
reached  his  destination.  How  often  in  the  course  of 
that  journey  did  the  thoughts  of  all  that  had  passed 
come  over  him,  till  his  heart  burned  and  his  brain  mad- 
dened I  How  often  did  he  vow  that  if  Caroline  were 
but  spared,  a  life  of  devotion  should  prove  the  sincerity 
of  his  repentance,  the  devotedness  of  his  again  doating 
heart !     But  vain  v^-ere  his  vows,  vain  his  repentance  I 

He  reached  Clair  Park  on  a  beautiful  autumn  after- 
noon  ;  the  setting  sunlx?ams  fell  redly  on  the  oaks  and 
elms  which  clothed  the  richly  wooded  park,  already 
clad  in  all  the  varied  hues  of  October  ;  and  glittered 
on  the  Gothic  windows  of  the  old  hall  in  waving  masses 
of  burnished  gold. 

All  looked  so  like  what  he  had  often  seen  it  before, 
that  Charles  tried  to  persuade  himself  his  fears  were 
exaggerated  ;  but  as  the  post-boy  slowly  walked  his 
horses  up  a  steep  part  of  the  approach,  the  lov/  moan- 
ing of  the  wind  sounded  mournfully  in  his  ears,  and  a 
shower  of  dead  leaves  which  it  wafted  into  the  car- 
riage window  checked  his  rising  hopes. 

A  beam  of  pleasure  passed  over  Sir  John  St.  Clair's 
countenance  as  his  young  friend  entered  his  room,  but 
a  melancholy  shake  of  the  head  was  his  only  reply  to 
Charles's  inquiries  after  Caroline  ;  lie  expressed  his 
v/ish  to  see  her  ;  but  Sir  John  seemed  to  doubt  if  she 
had  sufficient  strength  left  to  bear  the  agitation  of  the 
interview  ;  he  said,  hovrever,  she  was  aware  he  was 
coming,  and  that  he  would  send  to  inform  her  of  his 
arrival. 

Gently  and  with  many  fears  did  Lady  St.  Clair  com. 
municate  this  piece  of  intelligence  to  her  dying  daugh. 


312  LOVE  AND  VANITY. 

ter,  for  during  anxious  watchingsof  many  alongniglit 
and  day  something  like  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  had 
dawned  upon  Jier.  But,  contrary  to  her  expectation, 
Caroline  seemed  quite  pleased  to  hear  that  Charles 
was  in  the  house.  "  He  will  comfort  you,  molher, 
when  I  am  gone,"  she  said  ;  "  thank  God,  I  can  now 
die  tranquilly !" 

"He  is  anxious  to  see  you,  Caroline  ;  may  I  tell  him 
to  come  ?"  asked  Lady  St.  Clair.  The  hectic  flush, 
which  a  moment  before  had  burned  on  Caroline's 
cheek,  died  suddenly  away  when  she  heard  her  mo- 
ther's question,  and  a  deadly  paleness  overspread  her 
countenance  as  her  head  sank  back  on  the  sofa  on 
which  she  was  reclining ;  at  last  she  slowly  raised  it 
again,  and  pressing  her  forehead  against  her  mother's 
hand,  who  w^as  leaning  alarmedly  over  her,  she  said 
faintly — 

"  See  him  !  Oh  no  ! — I  have  loved  him  too  much, 
mother, — he  would  again  estrange  my  thoughts  from 
that  heaven  wliere  I  hope  so  soon  to  be.  I  am  glad  he 
has  come ;  but,  indeed,  indeed  I  cannot  see  him  now." 

"  You  shall  not,  then,  my  beloved  child,"  replied 
Lady  St.  Clair,  soothingly  ;  "  I  will  tell  him  you  do 
not  feel  strong  enough  to-day ;  and  to-morrow,  per- 
haps  ."   "  Yes,  mother,"  interrupted  Caroline  with 

a  faint  smile,  "  tell  him  that  to-morrow  he  may  see  me" 
and  Lady  St.  Clair  left  the  room.  "  Yes,  to-morrow," 
continued  Caroline,  "he  may,  indeed,  see  me,  for  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  see  him  then — to-morrow,  I  feel, 
I  shall  be  beyond  the  reach  of  temptation." 

The  room  in  which  Caroline  was,  had  always  been 
her  favorite  sitting  room  ;  it  opened  into  a  conserva- 
tory, which  again  opened  into  some  beautifully-kept 
pleasure  grounds  ;  and  in  consequence  of  an  occasional 
difficulty  of  breathing  with  which  Caroline  was  an- 
noyed, both  these  doors  Vv^ere  now  open.  A  rustling 
sound  amongst  the  leaves  caused  her  to  look  up  ;  one 
glance  told  her  the  figure  she  saw  in  the  conservatory 


LOVE  AND  VAXITV.  ol3 

v;as  Cliarlos,  and  before  she  had  time  or  strength  to 
fjrbid  his  approach,  he  was  beside  lier. 

"Caroline,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  took  her  wan  hand 
in  his,  "  can  you  forgive  me  ?  Can  you  pardon,  angel 
as  j'OU  are,  the  wretch  who  has  sacrificed  your  happi- 
ness and  his  own  to  a  vanity  as  weak  as  it  was  heart- 
less ?" 

It  was  some  moments  before  Caroline  was  able  to 
reply.  A  bright  flash  flitted  over  her  face,  then  settled 
into  one  deep  red  hectic  spot  on  one  cheek,  whilst  all 
the  rest  of  her  countenance  was  of  a  marble  whiteness 
— at  last  she  spoke,  and  it  was  with  a  calmness  which 
seemed  to  herself  alm.ost  unaccountable,  and  with 
v.'hich  Heaven  alone  could  have  inspired  her. 

"  Charles,"  she  said,  "  I  have  long  since  forgiven 
3'ou  ;  it  would  ill  have  become  one,  standing  so  much 
in  need  of  forgiveness  from  Heaven,  to  withhold  it  from 
you  on  earth ;  but  oh !  for  the  sake  of  that  peace  of 
mind,  without  which  this  life  is  but  a  living  death, 
never  yield  again  to  the  unrestrained  influence  of  those 
passions  which  have  destroyed  us  both.  In  me,  Charles, 
behold  an  example  of  their  desolating  effects ;  and  if 
ever  again  you  feel  your  principles  in  danger  of  yield- 
ing to  these  temptations,  oh  !  let  this  my  dying  warn- 
ing, sound  to  you,  like  a  voice  from  the  tomb,  and 
awaken  you  in  time  to  save  you  !  Too  blest  are  my 
sufferings,  if  they  can  pave  from  a  single  pang  one  still 
too  dear !" 

"  Bless  you,  Caroline  !  a  thousand  times,"  faltered 
the  repentant  Charles  ;  "  but  you  must  live,  and  must 
not  die,  my  Caroline  I  you  must  live  to  comfort  your 
father  and  mother ;  to  cheer  me  on  my  difficult  course ;" 
and  he  gazed  intently  on  her  face. 

"  Heaven  will  do  both,  Charles,"  she  replied  ;  "that 
heaven  which  enables  me  to  feel  my  hand  in  yours,  to 
know  once  more  that  you  love  me,  and  yet  to  say,  '  I 
am  content  to  die.' "     And  a  smile,  happy,  triumphant, 

26* 


314  THE  COURT  AT  TUNBRIDGE. 

pure  as  that  heaven  she  ppoke  of,  settled  on  her  dying 
oountenance. 

Charles  gazed  en  her  for  some  minutes  in  silence, 
fearful  to  interrupt  a  tranquility  so  beautiful ;  but  the 
coldness  of  the  hand  he  held  in  his  alarmed  him,  and 
he  rose  n-om  his  knee  beside  her,  saying  he  would  shut 
the  door,  as  the  evening  was  chill. 

"  The  cold  will  not  hurt  me  now,  Charles,"  she  faint- 
ly replied ;  he  felt  his  hand  convulsively  grasped  by 
hers,  he  heard  one  short  deep  sigh,  and  he  saw  she  was 
no  more.  He  saw  by  the  smile  vrhich  still  illuminated 
her  countenance  that  her  once  erring  but  now  purified 
spirit  had  fled  to  its  native  home — but  he  felt  his  van- 
ity had  killed  the  only  thing  he  ever  truly  loved  on 
earth. 


ifs^ig  ©@[yiB^  ^a^if  'irTiiKi[i3:^[i[2)©gc, 

IN  MDCLXIV. 

The  green  slopes  and  birclien  groves  of  Somerhill 
were  basking  under  the  brightness  of  an  unclouded 
summer  sun,  and  even  the  grey  stone  walls  of  the  ven- 
erable Hall  looked  gay  and  gladsome  under  its  cheer- 
ing  influence.  In  addition  to  the  innumerable  song- 
sters whose  melody  daily  enlivens  the  flowery  thickets 
by  which  it  is  surrounded,  there  v.'^as  a  swell  of  sweet 
and  stately  music  pealing  along  the  trim  alleys,  ac- 
companied, at  intervals,  by  a  measure  of  harmonious 
voices,  breathing  welcome  to  the  fair  of  the  fairest 
court  in  Christendom — King  Charles  teas  feasting  at 
Somerhill .' 

The  minstrels  remained  invisible  among  the  entan- 
gled garden-bowers  ;  but  the  gay  beings  unto  whom 
ihey  addressed  their  flattering  invocations,  were  seen 


THE  COURT  AT  TUNBRIDGE.  315 

scallercd  in  groups  upon  the  closely  shaven  turf,  in- 
haling the  rich  fragrance  of  the  bursting  magnolia- 
flowers,  or  glancing  from  out  the  green-wood  walkf; — 
gorgeous  and  bright,  and  many-colored  as  the  holly- 
Iiocks  that  lifted  up  their  stately  heads  beside  them.—* 
Nature,  as  well  as  majesty,  had  decreed  that  it  should 
be  di  jour  dc  fete  ;  and  smiles,  music,  and  sunshine, 
united  to  adorn  the  scene. 

"  Methinks,"  said  George  Hamilton,  throwing  him- 
self at  listless  length  upon  a  green  bank,  on  which  Sir 
Harry  Brooke,  the  king's  favorite  page,  was  already 
lying  in  solitary  rumination,  "  Methinks  't  is  graceless 
enough  in  Rowley  to  abandon  our  crack-brained  host- 
ess, the  Princess  of  Babylon,  in  this  her  own  particu- 
lar day  and  domain,  in  order  to  loiter  with  the  mad- 
cap Stewart,  by  greenwood  tree  or  mossy  dell." 

"  Hush  1"  replied  Brooke,  laying  a  cautionary  finger 
upon  his  lips,  and  glancing  towards  the  thick  hedge 
of  bay-trees  by  which  they  were  shaded.  "  How  know 
you  what  birds  may  build  in  the  neighboring  covert  ?" 

"  Tut !  man — the  ears  thou  dreadest  must  be  as 
acute  as  those  of  Fine  Oreille  in  the  story,  to  render 
them  dangerous.  Rowley  and  his  rattlcpate  ran  laugh- 
ing down  yonder  green  alley,  towards  the  stream  in 
the  hollov\'  below  ;  and,  my  life  to  a  silver  penny  I  they 
are  even  now  fishing  for  minnows  with  the  lady's  silk- 
en sash  and  etui  pin.  But  thou  lookest  neither  at 
brook  nor  dingle,  Harry  !  What  seest  thou  among 
the  distant  woods  on  which  to  gaze  so  earnestly  ?" 

"  I  see  the  gleam  of  an  ancient  stone  wall — I  see  a 
peaked  roof  rising  above  the  dark  chesnuts." 

"  And  what  then  ?" 

«'  'Tis  the  roof  of  Wildinghurst !"     "  Et  puis?" 

"  Nay  !  nothing  further,"  replied  Brooke,  turning 
away  his  moistened  eyes.  "  'Twere  dull  sport,  Ham- 
ilton, for  a  gallant  like  yourself  to  listen  to  a  tale  of 
poor  and  unhappy,  altliough  God  knows,  of  honest  and 
faithful  love  I" 


316  THE  COURT  AT  TUNBRTDGE. 

Hamilton  raised  his  e)'e-bro\vs  to  the  utmost  stretch 
of  wonder  and  admiration,  and  a  significant  smile  be- 
gan to  illuminate  his  handsome  countenance,  vrhen  a 
single  glance  towards  his  friend  suddenly  checked  his 
rising  mirth.  "  Beshrew  ray  heart,  Harry,"  exclaimed 
lie,  "  I  guessed  thee  not  for  so  stricken  a  deer  !  But, 
since  'tis  thus  with  thee  in  sober  sadness,  speed  ftie  thy 
love-tale,  man  !  the  how — the  wherefore — ^Ihe  when. 
Trust  me,"  he  continued,  extending  his  hand  in  friend- 
ly cordiality,  "  I  have  both  sym.pathy  and  counsel  at 
thy  service.  What  of  Wildinghm'st  ?  and  who  dwell- 
eth  beneath  yonder  peaked  roof,  Harry,  that  moves 
thee  so  strangely  ?" 

"  One  who  holds  courts  and  courtiers  as  equally  vile 
and  worthless  ;  the  more  especially,  that  he  vv'as  forced 
to  abandon  both  the  one  and  the  other,  through  lack 
of  Rowlev's  good  countenance — even  old  Sir  Mark 
Willoughby."" 

"  And  wherefore  should  the  name  of  a  worn-out  ca- 
valier— ^  frondeur,  whom  all  the  world  beside  hath 
forgotten,  bring  tears  into  thine  eyes?" 

"  Simpl}',  because  he  hath  one  fair  daughter." 

Hamilton's  eye  brightened,  and  his  lip  curled  again. 

"  My  stor}^  is  as  easily  ended  as  begun,"  quoth  the 
page,  reddening  angrily.  "  Grace  Willoughb}'-  and 
myself  were  playmates  in  childhood  — lovers  in  youth 
— self-confident — and  self-betrothed.  But  Sir  Mark, 
who  hath  endured  unworthy  neglect  at  his  Majesty's 
hands,  would  not,  for  the  worth  of  the  Exchequer,  be- 
stow his  daughter  upon  a  minion  of  the  court ;  and  he 
hath  accordingly  closed  his  door  upon  my  future  visits." 

"  In  order  that  thou  maj'est  find  admission  through 
the  casement  ?" 

"  No  !"  replied  Brooke,  haughtily.  "  He  gave  me 
a  fair  choice,  between  his  daughter  and  my  loyal  ser- 
vice." 

"  And  thou  didst  gallantly  prefer  a  liver}-  and  court 
servitude,  to  freedom  and  the  fair  Grace  ?" 


Tfir  COURT  AT  TUNERIDf.T.  317 

''The  livery  1  wear,"  said  Brooke,  looking  down  on 
his  embroidered  sleeve,  "  is  that  of  my  sovereign  ;  and 
my  service  waits  upon  the  noble  descendant  of  a  line  of 
princes,  lo  whom  that  of  my  forefathers  has  been  de- 
voted for  centuries." 

"Spoken  with  right-earnest  delivery  and  notable 
emphasis,  like  many  another  fustian  rant." 

"  In  sober  English,  then,"  replied  Brooke,  warmly, 
"  I  love  Rowley.  Despite  his  whimsies  and  vagaries, 
there  lives  not  a  nobler  gentleman — a  kinder  friend. 
Born  at  Cologne,  while  my  parents  shared  his  exile,  I 
have  scarcely  left  his  side  since  I  was  high  enough  to 
buckle  his  garter  ;  and  not  even  the  love  of  my  pre- 
cious Grace  shall  tempt  me  to  throw  back  his  favors  in 
his  teeth.  I  have  lived /or  liim — ivith  him — and  I  trust 
to  die  so." 

"Praying  that  time  and  our  Lady's  grace  may  re- 
move old  Willoughby's  prejudices.  Well,  well,  I  shall 
marvel  no  more  at  the  staid  gravity  of  thy  demeanor, 
nor  at  the  philosophical  coldness  with  which  thou  re- 
ceivest  the  brigiit  glances  I  have  seek  levelled  at  thee 
from  behind  his  Majesty's  chair.  But  we  must  up  and 
away,  Harry,  for  the  halUbell  sounds  broadward  ;"  and 
the  two  young  men,  after  hurrying  towards  the  stately 
gallery  at  Somerhill,  in  which  the  groaning  tables 
were  sumptuously  spread,  scarcely  reached  the  upper 
end  in  time  to  assume  their  post,  as  the  gay  monarch 
entered  from  the  garden  ;  and,  by  his  high-bred  cour- 
tesies and  cheerful  gallantry,  soon  appeased  the  wound- 
ed pride  of  his  irate  hostess — the  abused  and  far-famed 
Lady  Muskerry. 

It  v^^as  some  days  after  the  festivities  at  Somerhill, 
that,  one  evening  towards  night-fall,  two  travellers 
were  seen  riding  at  a  brisk  pace  along  one  of  the  nu- 
merous green  lanes  between  Tunbridge  and  Knowle. 
They  were  habited  alike,  in  sad-colored  suits,  and  ap- 
peared to  belong  to  the  class  of  poorer  gentry  ;  while 
the  horses  on  which  they  were  Jiiounted  might  have 


318  THE  COURT  AT  TTTNEPJDGK. 

laid  claim  to  a  higher  pedigree.  "  Yonder  is  f  lie  liouse, 
if  my  memory  serves  me,"  said  the  elder  of  the  two,  as 
they  crossed  the  high  road  towards  a  plantation  that 
appeared  to  surround  a  mansion  of  respectability.  The 
other,  immediately  dismounting,  opened  an  entrance 
gate,  and  as  they  passed  into  a  small  wood,  the  moon 
shone  out  brightl}'  through  the  thickly  interwoven 
branches,  and  cast  a  Mosaic-like  reflection  upon  the 
wild  flowers  witli  which  it  was  carpeted. 

A  brighter  radiance  soon  shone  through  the  receding 
trees  ;  and,  reaching  a  second  gate,  the  travellers  sud- 
denly came  upon  an  open  platform,  in  the  centre  of 
v/hich  rose  the  sequestered  Hall  of  Wildinghurst.  It 
was  a  low,  stone  mansion,  after  the  fashion  of  the  early 
manorial  house — half  castellated — belonging  to  no  or- 
der— and  boasting  fev.'  ornaments,  save  the  carved  ma- 
sonry of  its  porch.  The  strangers  having  advanced 
v/ithin  the  screen  of  open  stone-work  fronting  the 
house,  the  younger  hastened  to  set  the  great  bell  of 
the  hall  in  vigorous  motion,  till  its  clang  broke  inhar- 
moniously  upon  the  soft  and  slumberous  effect  of  the 
moonlight  stillness  around.  The  heavy  portal  soon 
swung  upon  its  hinges ;  and  out  bounded  two  gaunt, 
active  blood-hounds,  eager  to  prove  their  instinctive 
discrimination  of  friend  or  foe  upon  the  new-comers  ; 
closely  followed  by  a  decrcpid  serving-man  in  a  faded 
livery,  who,  after  receiving  with  civility  the  self-an- 
nouncement of  the  elder  stranger,  as  Master  Hems, 
worth,  of  Manor-field,  in  the  m.arshes  of  Kent,  pro- 
ceeded to  refer  his  request  for  a  night's  hospitality  at 
Wildinghurst,  to  the  superior  powers  within.  The 
plea  of  a  lame  horse,  and  a  pressing  representation  of 
the  perils  of  a  midnight  journey,  with  a  well-filled 
purse,  and  without  fire-arms,  were  judged  sufficiently 
urgent  by  the  old  cavalier  ;  who  was  aware  that  not 
a  hostel  of  credit  stood  within  ten  miles  of  his  gate  ; 
and  the  gentlemen  were  accordingly  requested  to  dis- 
mount and  enter  the  Hall. 


THE  COUKT  AT  TU.XBRiDGE.  319 

The  younger  of  the  two,  conscious;,  pcrJiaps,  tliat  iJic 
appearance  of  llieir  horses  might  controvert  tlie  truth 
of  their  alleged  dilemma,  insisted  upon  officiating  in 
the  stable  ;  and  having  been  placed  by  the  staid  mag. 
gior  d'uoino  under  the  guidance  of  a  red-headed  sav- 
age of  a  farming-lad,  he  proceeded,  with  no  small  awk- 
wardness, to  fulfil  his  self-imposed  duties. 

The  young  esquire,  after  loitering  over  his  task,  hi 
order  to  afford  an  opportunity  to  his  companion  of  tell- 
ing their  story  in  his  own  way,  proceeded  with  some 
hesitation  towards  the  Hall  ;  but  he  was  quickly  re- 
assured, by  the  shouts  of  laughter  issuing  from  the 
door,  and  by  the  familiar  attitude  in  which,  on  his  en- 
trance, he  found  !\Iastcr  Hemv.'orth  seated  at  his  host's 
right  hand.  On  the  rudely  covered  board,  .stood  the 
remains  of  a  pastry  and  of  a  portly  sirloin,  now  rapidly 
dimmishing  under  the  attacks  of  his  comrade,  who  was 
cordially  pledging  his  opposite  neighbor,  the  family 
priest,  in  a  deep  cup  of  nut-brown  ale.  The  two  do- 
mestics stood  gazing  vrith  fixed  wonderment  at  the 
easy  assurance  with  which  the  unbidden  guest  com- 
manded their  services  ;  and  began  to  augur  somewhat 
suspiciously  of  the  termination  of  this  visit.  But  Sir 
Mark,  on  the  contrary,  appeared  delighted  with  the 
frank  joviality  of  the  elder  Hemworth  ;  and  was  listen- 
ing with  rapture  to  his  humorous  description  of  the 
new-fangled  pastimes  of  the  courtiers,  and  of  the  ex- 
travagant fashions  of  the  court-beauties. 

"  I  tarried  at  Tunbridge,"  quoth  he,  "  but  to  bait  my 
horses ;  yet,  even  in  that  short  space  of  time,  yonder 
scatterbrains,"  glancing  significantly  at  his  nephew  as 
he  entered,  "found  me  time  to  lose  half  a  year's  rent 
of  my  goodly  hop-grounds,  in  a  game  at  shovel-board 
with  one  of  the  idlest  rufflers  of  the  Wells — a  good  for 
nothuig  little  varlet  of  some  distinction,  named  George 
Hamilton." 

Whether  soinethmg  in  the  countenance  or  bearing 
of  his  guests  had  hit  the  fancy  of  the  veteran,  or  wheth- 


320  THE  COURT  AT  TUNBRIDGE. 

er  the  lack  of  better  company,  to  which  he  had  long 
condemned  himself,  had  rendered  him  little  difficult  to 
please,  certain  it  was,  that  he  not  only  graced  his  hos- 
pitality  with  friendly  welcome,  but  even  indulged  in  an 
unsuspicious  freedom  of  speech  that  might  have  better 
becom.e  a  more  mature  acquaintance.  When  the  at. 
tendants  had  withdrawn,  and  the  lamb's  vrool,  Avhich 
in  heavy  pewter  flagons  graced  the  board,  had  begun 
its  work  of  mischief  upon  heads  ill-accustomed  to  such 
heavy  potations,  he  added  to  the  strictures  of  his  un- 
known visiters  upon  the  follies  of  the  court,  many  bit- 
ter  personalities  upon  its  inmates. 

"  Aye,  gentleman,"  said  the  old  man  v/armly,  "  I 
have,  perchance,  better  reason  than  ye  wot  of  to  curse 
these  new-fangled  fopperies.  To  gild  the  waste  of  yon- 
der prodigal,  many  a  fair  rood  of  the  woodlands  of  \Vil- 
dinghurst  hath  been  turned  into  a  waste.  The  proud- 
est oaks  of  Kent  once  stretched  their  lusty  branches 
over  the  plains  whereon  ye  gallopped  this  afternoon 
without  finding  a  twig  on  which  to  perch  a  chaffinch  I 
And  why,  forsooth,  do  I  dishonor  my  board  with  this 
yeoman's  fare,  but  that  old  Mark  Willoughby  scorns 
to  dole  out  Bourdcaux  and  Rhenish  like  a  village  sut- 
tler  ; — and  that,  were  he  to  let  them  flow  as  they  were 
wont  in  his  father's  hall,  he  might  v/histle  to  the  waves 
of  the  Medway  to  come  and  fill  his  empty  cellars  I 
When  the  exiled  Prince,  or  his  parasites,  lacked  a  bag 
of  pistoles,  who  so  ready  as  the  doting  dunderhead  of 
Wildinghurst,  to  mortgage  acre  after  acre — to  fell 
coppice  after  coppice — in  order  to  teach  them  that 
there  still  beat  one  loyal  heart  in  Old  England  ?  Who 
more  forward  to  spill  his  blood  in  the  cause  of  the 
Stuarts  ? — I  left  a  limb,  Sirs,  upon  Worcester  plain  ; 
and  after  being  haunted  like  a  beast  during  the  Com- 
monwealth, I  dwelt  here  in  solitude,  to  pinch  and  spare 
for  the  good  cause, — and  so  far  I  lacked  not  discretion. 
But  I  was  fool  enough  to  dream  that  old  claims  might 
avail  me  something  in  a  new  Court,  and  to  fancy  that 


TTIK  COURT  AT  TUNERICCE.  321 

a  veteran  cavalier  mig-ht  find  gvaec  in  a  royal  saloon  !" 

"  But  r;urely,  Sir,"  interrupted  ihe  elder  Hemswortli, 
his  eyes  glistening  and  his  cheeks  flushed,  "  Surely, 
Sir,  Charles  can  know  nothing  of  those  claims,  of  these 
unrequited  services  ?" 

"  Hovy"  should  he  choose  hut  know,"  shouted  Sir 
Mark.  "  When  the  warm  feelings  of  ray  clownish 
heart  urged  me  to  rush,  something  roughly  perhaps, 
into  the  presence  chamber,  that  1  might  gladden  my  old 
eyes  with  the  sight  of  the  restored  sovereign,  whom  I 
loved  with  the  same  fondness  I  bear  my  ov/n  lady.bird 
— my  daughter  Grace — I  was  put  back,  like  a  forward 
child,  by  a  tawdry  princox  of  an  usher,  who  bade  rne  re- 
member — God  knows  what !  I  should  have  smitten  the 
hireling  varlet  to  the  earth,  but  that  at  the  moment  I 
heard  young  Rochester  noting  to  one  of  his  saucy 
mates  'the  boorish  breeding  of  Corporal  Stump.'  My 
anger  fell  on  prouder  shoulders  than  those  of  a  lacky  ; 
and  I  rushed,  cap  in  hand,  to  the  king,  and  spoke  my 
indignation  in  such  downright  terms,  that  I  was  speed- 
ily placed  in  arrest,  and  in  consideration  only  of  my 
former  services — my  services  ! — I  was  perimitted  to  re- 
tire to  my  country-seat,  to  mend  my  manners  ;  in  or- 
der that  the  minions  of  Charles  Stuart  might  undergo 
no  further  insult." 

"  You  spoke  of  your  daughter.  Sir,"  said  Hensworth, 
after  a  long  pause,  in  which  he  appeared  striving  to 
subdue  some  painful  emotion.  "  Does  yonder  lovely 
portrait  represent  the  Lady  Grace  !" 

"  It  is  her  mother's  picture,"  replied  Sir  Mark,  in  a 
milder  tone;  "and  although  a  rnaster-piece  of  Van- 
dyke himself,  and  imaging  as  fair  a  creature  as  ever 
trod  the  earth,  yet  doth  it  not  set  forth  one  half  the 
loveliness — the  heavenly -mindedness  of  her  child  !  In 
m}'  days  of  prosperity,  Sir,  I  admired  only  in  my 
(^Jrace,  the  proud  beauty, — the  accomplished  heiress  of 
Wildinghurst ;  but  what  is  she  now,  what  hath  she  not 
been,  since  poverty  laid  his  iron  hand  upon  my  house- 
27 


322  THE  COURT  AT  TUNBRIDGE. 

hold  !  The  soothing  comforter  of  my  peevish  age ; 
my  cheerful,  active  companion  I  To  serve  me  with 
sweet  and  patient  duty,  she  hath  forgotten  the  sports 
of  her  age, — she  hath  renounced,  one  by  one,  the 
adornments  of  her  lonely  existence  I  She  who  was 
born  and  nurtured  in  affluence,  hath  given  up  state 
and  grace  to  increase  the  stock  of  the  old  soldier's 
comforts.  Page  and  bower-maiden, — the  palfrey  that 
came  neighing  to  her  call, — the  jewels  that  were  her 
mother's  bequest — one  by  one,  have  all  been  sacrificed. 
Those  delicate  hands  that  had  scarcely  moved,  save 
over  the  strings  of  her  gittern,  have  labored  for  me 
with  the  activity  of  a  yeoman's  housedarae  ;  and  more 
than  all — more  than  all,"  continued  the  old  man,  in  a 
broken  voice,  "  she  hath  done  this,  she  hath  done  more 
than  I  can  find  breath  to  tell,  with  a  heart  that  shrunk 
not  from  the  sacrifice  of  its  own  fondest  feelings. 
There  is  a  fair  lad  among  the  crew  of  laced  block- 
heads ye  saw  this  morning,  who  would  fain  take  her 
from  her  old  father's  heart,  and  place  her  in  a  station 
that  becomes  her  ;  but  seeing  that  my  prayers  cannot 
induce  him  to  forsake  the  king's  household,  she  hath 
given  up  the  tender  affection  with  which  she  repays 
his  long  attachnicnt,  at  my  bidding.  No !  although 
the  subdued  glance  of  those  bright  eyes,  the  languor 
of  that  once  light  step  betray  at  every  moment  the  suf- 
ferings she  labors  to  conceal,  Harry  Brooke  Avill  never 
bribe  any  girl  to  leave  the  side  of  her  poor,  decrepid, 
doating  father  I" 

"  But  may  not  the  health  of  the  Lady  Grace  suffer 
imdcr  the  influence  of  such  feelings  ?" 

"  I  sometimes  fear  it,"  replied  Willoughby,  deject- 
edly ;  "  and  I  even  long  to  call  the  boy  back  again, 
and  make  them  happy  before  I  am  too  blind  to  witness 
their  union." 

"  Nay,  then,"  exclaimed  Hemsworth  ; — but  what  he 
said,  and  what  Sir  Mark  replied,  and  how   the  visit 


THE  COURT  AT  TUNBRIDGE.  323 

terminated,  the  curious  reader  must  guess  by  the  se- 
quel.— 

"  What  new  frolic  is  astir  tins  morning,"  said  Sir 
Harry  Brooke  to  Hamilton,  who  had  entered  the  apart- 
ment of  liis  friend  at  day -break,  and  was  busily  select, 
ing  for  his  toilet  the  newest  of  his  gala  suits. 

"  Nay  !  I  know  not ;  but  we  had  orders  yesternight 
to  be  in  readiness  for  some  especial  ceremony  by  noon- 
tide. Some  ambassador,  perhaps,  to  deliver  his  cre- 
dentials." 

"  Impossible, — the  Spanish  envoy's  reception  hath 
been  remitted  until  the  return  of  the  court  to  White- 
hall. For  many  days  past  there  hath  been  a  rumor  of 
strangers  expected,  and  of  apartments  to  be  prepared 
in  the  Queen's  own  lodging.  For  whom,  in  the  name 
of  mystery  ?  Nay, — Miss  Jennings  bewildered  me  but 
last  night  by  her  description  of  a  Vv-ardrobe  of  exquisite 
fashion  and  richness,  that  hath  been  secretly  collect- 
ing by  her  Majesty's  orders,  for  a  lady  of  her  own  per- 
son  and  stature.  Read  me  the  middle,  Hamilton — 
what  plot  is  here  ?" 

"Time  will  resolve  us,  Harry.  But  now  that  thine 
outward  man  hath  put  on  a  more  goodly  seeming,  let  us 
to  the  presence.  Stay  !  thy  breast-piece  is,  even  now, 
a  thought  too  high,  and  the  wave  of  yonder  curl  be- 
comes thee  not.  Cheer  thee  man  !  and  put  on  a 
brighter  countenance,  for  I  predict  a  day  of  joy  and 
merriment." 

At  noon,  according  to  his  announcement,  Charles 
entered  the  circle.  A  stranger  was,  indeed,  leaning 
upon  his  arm — a  stranger  to  all,  save  Hamilton  and 
Brooke. 

"  Let  me  present  ye,  gentlemen,"  said  the  King, 
looking  with  dignity  around  his  astonished  court,  "my 
friend  and  faithful  adherent,  Sir  Mark  Willougliby  ; 
to  whom  I  am  anxious  to  pay  a  long  and  reproachful 
arrear  of  gratitude  and  affection.     I  wish  it  were  more 


324  THE  COTJRT  AT  TUNERTDGE. 

frequently  in  my  powex*-  lo  make  so  worthy  an  addition 
to  your  niiTiiber." 

'•  I  shall  f  hortlj^  however,"  continued  Charles,  smil- 
ing, "  still  further  deserve  your  acknowledgments,  by 
introducing  to  your  courtesies  a  fair  stranger,  whom  I 
would  name  to  you  as  the  lovely,  the  excellent  Grace 
Willoughby,  but  that  I  shall  shortly  requke  your  com- 
pliments to  be  addressed  to  her  as — the  Lady  Brooke." 

Sir  Harry,  casting  a  single  glance  tovv^ards  the  suite 
of  the  Queen,  v.ho  at  this  moment  entered  the  cham- 
ber, could  no  longer  repress  his  emotions.  Hastily  ad- 
vancing, he  knelt  to  kiss  the  hand  of  his  benefactor  ; 
and  before  he  rose  from  his  kr.ee,  the  King  had  led  for. 
ward  a  gentle,  trembling  girl,  to  whom.  Katharine  was 
breathing  the  kindest  words  of  encouragement ;  and 
having  placed  her  hand  in  that  of  his  page,  he  bade 
them  be  happy  together,  rather  with  the  warmth  of  a 
brother,  than  with  the  dignity  of  a  monarch. 

They  vv-ere  married  on  that  very  day  ;  and  as  the 
bridegroom  left  the  chapel,  King  Charles  whispered 
audibly  to  George  Hamilton,  "  those  who  are  inclined 
to  blame  Rowley  and  the  rattlepate  as  pryers  and  lis- 
teners at  Somerhill,  must  acknowledge  that  Master 
Hemsworth  of  Manor-field,  repaired  their  error.  Trust 
me  he  will  never  forget  those  v.'ho,  despite  his  whim, 
sies  and  vagaries,  still  love  old  Rowley  ."^ 


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